Hell is Empty
by TBarchett97
Summary: " Then they were gone, and Jim was left standing alone in a clearing on an unfamiliar world, the yaps and growls of savage men rising behind him. He swore vehemently in Romulan. " Enterprise motto: No mission runs smoothly. This one is no exception.
1. So Comes the Tempest

Jim hit the ground with his shoulders curving into a rough but practiced roll, wrapped his fingers around a feverishly hot throat in an effort to fend off snapping jaws, jammed his phaser beneath a bony rib cage to deliver a well-placed stun blast, and - in the brief moment between shoving the slumped body aside and being yanked to his feet by Spock - wondered why he had ever though this day might proceed smoothly.

The planet at which the U.S.S. Enterprise had arrived some eight days prior – known as Z-47 Qi Delta within official channels, but dubbed Paradiso by its fond settlers - was situated on the outskirts of known space. It was new enough that the only people that as yet occupied it were the scientists and their kin situated on the Starfleet research base, and interesting enough in its possession of some promising healing compounds that Starfleet had sent its flagship to assist in further research and collect some promising samples.

Upon arrival at the planet, Jim had beamed down with his First Officer and a science team to discover that the planet lived up to its nickname. The trees surrounding the research base were a lush motley of greens, the air was clean and the surrounding mountains tinged a pleasant blue beneath the light of the two suns. A paradise indeed.

The Chief Scientist on base was an incredibly thin, ruffled looking man who nevertheless radiated a sense of boundless energy. Within minutes of their arrival, he regaling them with an excited stream of data regarding their advancements with the new compounds, and Jim had left Spock to wade through it in his own time. The Vulcan was doing a good job of burying his enthusiasm for the project under a layer of stoic professionalism, but Jim could read it in the attentive tilt of his head and the occasional twitch in his long, thin fingers – as if he were itching to grab the displayed samples straight away and haul them off to his own lab for analysis.

Jim had taken a short walk to familiarise himself with the compound and its surrounds. With every new glimpse of the wonders the planet had to offer – such as the deep purple flowers that hummed like taut wires in the gentle breeze, or the iridescent lizard-like creatures that soaked in the pools of sun between the blue-black rocks – he found himself more regretful that he could not allow a greater number of his crew leave to explore this world. The scientists had insisted on minimal on-planet traffic in order to preserve the balance of an environment still under study. Though disappointing, Jim understood their concerns.

Upon his return, Jim had found Spock ready to return to the ship with a set of samples to be analysed using the superior equipment available in the Enterprise labs. A handful of their scientists were left at the compound to assist the local researchers with on-site studies. Jim had left the planet light-hearted and optimistic about the mission's outcomes.

Three days later, a massive storm had rolled in over the region in which the compound was located. Ionic disturbances in the upper atmosphere had made communications impossible, and the twice-daily reports that had been coming in from the Enterprise scientists at the research base had ground to an abrupt halt. The situation was deemed inconvenient, but not a cause for any real concern. Jim had conferred with Spock, and they had agreed that if the storm exceeded five days, they would pursue alternative means of making contact with the base.

Midway through the sixth day, the storm had begun to dissipate. The next twenty-four hours were spent trying to get hold of the base with increasing urgency. Their signal had not appeared to be blocked in any way, and yet with the exception of one recorded message dated three days prior, there was only silence from below. The message had been a chaotic babble, delivered by one of the Enterprise scientists, which failed to communicate much more than incoherent ramblings regarding the spread of a sickness among the base's occupants, and the man's crippling fear.

And so a team comprised of Jim, Spock, Bones – who had insisted that he accompany them in the interest of addressing claims of a sickness, but was no doubt motivated more by a desire to keep a close eye on his injury-prone friend – and four security personnel had beamed down in full biosuits with the intention of establishing what had occurred under the cover of the storm. They were carrying phasers, medical supplies and a warning from Scotty that residual disturbances in the upper atmosphere could make beam outs from any but a few designated locations incredibly difficult. They had anticipated a base full of ill, vulnerable people.

They had been wrong.

Within minutes of arriving on the surface, it became clear that things had changed drastically during the break in communication. The front-right section of the research base was a burnt-out husk, and somewhere on the other side of the compound an alarm wailed, shrill and insistent. The entrance to the base was open, doors askew in a manner that rendered the entire image reminiscent of an open wound. The wall to the right of the entrance was covered in rust-brown streaks that were undoubtedly dried blood, and the head scientist who had greeted them so enthusiastically only days before was lying, stretched out, a few feet away.

Jim had seen many corpses in his time as a Starfleet Captain, but even he had not been unaffected by the sight the man's body made. His jaw was grotesquely unhinged, gaping up at the sky, and his ribs appeared to have been broken open to reveal a ravaged chest cavity. One of the iridescent green lizards Jim had spotted before was nestled within it. As they had approached, it had lifted a snout that glistened wetly.

It had been at this time, as McCoy choked down a disgusted exclamation and the rest of them stood alert with phasers primed, that the remainder of the base's occupants had revealed themselves. They burst forth from the shadows of the surrounding trees and base entrance, and for one vital moment, Jim had stood frozen, transfixed by the sight they made. Clothes – Starfleet uniforms and regular lab apparel – were torn and bloody, flesh ripped and sweat-slick, eyes reflecting the light as if covered in cataracts, and most of them had blood between their teeth and lining the creases of their lower jaws. The violence of their intentions had been evident in the gnash of their teeth and inhuman wildness in their eyes.

Spock and Jim had reacted first, stunning the nearest attackers before they could come within reaching distance. The other officers had begun responding immediately after, but it quickly became clear that the number of infected was greater than they were equipped to handle. Particularly when they were unable to risk exposure to whatever had affected the surface population.

And so it had come to this: Jim sprinting through the trees with Spock on his one side and McCoy cursing breathlessly on his other. Whatever disease the locals were suffering from, it clearly hindered neither their speed, nor their dexterity, and any ground gained on them had been hard won. Jim fired haphazardly over his shoulder in an effort to slow their fastest pursuers. When a crash of underbrush followed his latest shot, he grinned.

"Four," he huffed, shooting a quick grin Spock's way as he leapt over a particularly tangled pile of brush.

"There is no logic in attempting to compete in a situation where the outcomes of the competition are to our mutual benefit, Captain," stated Spock. His breath was light and controlled, despite their swift pace, and Jim envied him for it.

"You only say that because…if we were competing…I'd win," quipped Jim between breaths.

"That is incorrect, Captain," countered Spock, and fired over his shoulder, managing to stun one of their pursuers and send him careening into the man behind him. The glance he cast Jim's way managed to be smug even through several layers of Vulcan control and a biosuit mask.

"If you two…would quit your flirting…and focus on…getting us off...this _bloody planet_?" growled McCoy. Beneath his mask, his face was bright red and his breath came in harsh pants.

Jim told himself that the reason he didn't stick his tongue out at his irascible best friend was because he was a Starfleet Captain, with poise and dignity, and not because he could not manage the gesture without turning his head and tripping flat on his face.

As it was, he huffed out, "Ah come on…Bones…you know you're…the only one for me." Then he concentrated on calling up the charts they had examined before beaming down in his minds eye, and continued, " 'cording to…the calculations Scotty showed us…nearest beam up point…should be 'bout…a click North. Spock?"

"Approximately 0.924 km, Captain. Barring additional obstacles, we should arrive in 7.56 minutes."

"Keep it to…one decimal point when…fleeing, Spock," said Jim, deftly dodging a low-hanging tree branch.

"Of course, Captain."

They had gained some ground, and Jim was just beginning to think that they were likely to make it off-planet with everyone intact when Ensign Mathers – one of the security personnel – caught his ankle in a tangle of tree roots and went down hard. He forced himself upright swiftly, but promptly cried out in pain as his left ankle buckled and gave way.

"Stay down, you idiot," McCoy growled as the man attempted to rise again. He grasped the offending limb none too gently, deaf to the Ensign's moans of pain.

"Biosuit limits my examination somewhat, Jim, but I can tell you this is broken," said McCoy grimly after a moment's manoeuvring. His hands were already busy pulling together a rough splint around the ankle.

Jim huffed a violent Andorian expletive. It was an Andorian-curse-worthy crisis - he saved his Romulan curses for truly shitty situations.

"Strap him quick, Bones. We aren't that far ahead of these guys, and I'd prefer to be off-planet before dinner. Theirs, that is."

"Damn right," agreed McCoy fervently, before descending into familiar mutters containing words like 'space' and 'death' and 'damn-fool Captains-of-the-Obvious'. Jim grinned despite himself.

The bio-suit was ill-suited to the act of fleeing, and below its stiff layers Jim's skin was slick with sweat. He almost raised a hand to swipe it through his hair, only to recall at the last moment that the gesture was hindered by the hood and mask.

He shifted closer to Spock, who was focused intently on his communicator. He looked up at Jim's approach, and Jim could see the faintest flush of green in his cheeks from the exertion.

"According to Mr Scott, there is location 0.212km from our current position that would serve as an adequate beam-up point."

"Decimals, Spock," warned Jim, but his smile belied his words.

"We are not currently fleeing, Captain," deadpanned Spock, and Jim's smile grew to a grin. He continued, "As the aforementioned beam-up point is closer than our original destination, and Ensign Mather's mobility has been reduced, I would recommend that we make haste to that location when we resume."

"Brilliant suggestion, Spock," responded Jim. "Top marks."

Spock's brow furrowed and he opened his mouth, no doubt to refute the relevance of marks in this context, but was interrupted by a vicious snarl as a man with in torn science blues with clawed and blood-crusted fingers launched himself from the underbrush to their left. He made it barely two feet before Jim and Spock's dual stun blasts struck him in the chest, but his arrival signalled the end of their reprieve.

"Bones," called Jim, checking his phaser and settling into a defensive stance. "I need you wrapped up and ready to go in the next thirty seconds. Spock, head over there and watch his back 'til we head on. You'll be assisting Ensign Mather's to the beam-up point."

"Yes, Captain," responded Spock promptly, and moved away. Jim stunned the next two attackers that burst from the surrounding bushes and continued to bark instructions.

"Ensigns Cole, Rapsada, you will run ahead and ensure our path to the beam-up point is clear. Co-ordinate with Scotty via communicator and be ready to leave the instant we arrive. Understood?"

Two security personnel nodded in unison with a firm, "Aye, sir." Then they were gone.

Jim turned and was relieved to see Bones rising from his position at Mather's side. He quickly headed over and grasped the doctor's shoulder.

"Bones, start heading towards the beam-out point with Lieutenant Bryne." The remaining officer stepped forward with a nod, phaser poised at her side. "Spock and I will follow with Ensign Mathers."

McCoy's eyes flashed, and Jim could see that he was preparing to argue, so he allowed his face to settle into firm and unforgiving lines. "That's an order, Bones. Move out."

McCoy turned and marched away without another word, but Jim knew he would find a way to show his displeasure later. Probably with hyposprays.

Jim turned just as Spock was manoeuvring Mather's onto his feet. In the split second when his attention was split between McCoy's retreating back and his First Officer, a set of three rabid infected barrelled out of the underbrush.

Jim managed to stun two swiftly, but the third was blocked by Spock and Mather's bodies, and he could not get a clear shot. Spock was attempting to turn and face the threat, but Mathers – clearly panicked by the abrupt turn of events – had lost his balance again and twisted his fists into Spock's science blues in an effort to remain upright. This in turn pulled Spock off balance for a vital few seconds, while blocking the arm holding his phaser from swinging around.

Jim cursed and reacted quickly. He reached Spock and Mather's tangled forms in the space of a single stride, and yanked them out of the way in the same instant that their slavering attacker launched himself at the space they had occupied before. A space now occupied by Jim.

Jim went down hard, the back of his head smacking against the ground hard enough to make his teeth clack together. Though slightly dazed, he threw his arm up in an automatic bid to keep his assailant's snapping jaws away from his face and neck. In the same instant, he attempted to bring his phaser arm up to stun the man, but the limb was firmly tucked between their two bodies, and he could not fire for fear of hitting himself.

He could see the hot, humid breath of his attacker fogging the mask of his biosuit as he snapped ineffectually and strained against his arm. The man writhed, clearly frustrated by being so near to his prey and unable to bite. Jim felt fingers dig into the flesh of his exposed inner arm, followed by a sharp pain that caused him to yelp despite himself.

In the next instant, the weight on his arm and torso was removed. He caught a glimpse of Spock's face, a terrifying snarl twisting his normally blank features, before both Spock and attacker moved out of his range of sight. He scrambled to his feet in time to see Spock hurl the man's form against a tree with considerable force. Despite this, the man made a brief attempt at rising again before Spock's stun blast struck him in the chest. He collapsed and remained still.

In the next instant, Spock turned concerned eyes on Jim and took half a step in his direction, hands rising in a gesture that looked uncommonly uncontrolled. "Captain, are you-?"

"Fine, Spock," assured Jim, raising his unhurt arm in a gesture that halted the Vulcan's approach. "Think we've finally outstayed our welcome, yes? Grab Mather's and let's blow this joint."

Spock's forehead remained creased, his eyes flicking to Jim repeatedly even as he hauled Mathers to his feet once more. However, when they started moving, he quickly shifted his focus to navigating the terrain with the Ensign's weight against one side. They caught up to McCoy and Lieutenant Bryne quickly – Jim suspected that Bones had been stalling with just such an outcome in mind – and Bryne, McCoy and Jim focused on throwing off their pursuers with a steady stream of phaser fire.

Jim fell slightly behind as they approached the beam-up point. He had two motives for this. The first was to keep an eye on the trees behind them and stun any pursuers who got to close. The second was to evaluate the damage done to his arm.

The pain had dulled considerably in the short moments since his tumble with the infected, but his inner forearm still throbbed in a way that suggested more than just bruising. Jim glanced down to have his worst fears confirmed. The material of his biosuit was torn, and he could just see three ragged wounds in his forearm where his attacker's sharp fingernails had torn through the skin. Blood had already soaked into the – thankfully red – material of the suit.

 _Had to get in a tussle with the one scientist with a pedi_ , though Jim with grim amusement. In truth, he strongly suspected that augmented strength was a side effect of whatever was affecting the people on planet. Biosuit material did not tear easily.

Jim kept his arm tucked tightly against his side. His biosuit has been compromised, and he knew immediately that he would not be returning to the ship. Even were it not protocol to keep all unknown diseases and contaminants off ship until readily treatable, he could never in good conscience expose his crew to that kind of risk.

Unfortunately, that same crew was made up of the horribly loyal sort that would place themselves in mortal peril without any hesitation rather than leave him behind on a hostile and disease-ridden planet. For the most part, it was a trait he found touching – and, secretly, incredibly humbling – but in instances such as this it caused him only frustration. Bones alone would attach himself to Jim with implacable finality if he got even an inkling that anything was amiss, and Spock…

So Jim kept his wound out of sight. Under the cover of the other's phaser fire, he sent off hasty instructions to the ship via his communicator and demanded, "Have you got that, Scotty?"

The Scotsman had the beginnings of trepidation in his voice as he replied, "Aye, Cap'n, but-"

"No time for buts, Scotty – buts are for after the immediate threat of painful death has passed. We'll be coming up on the beam-up point any second now. Stand by for my command."

"Aye, sir."

As they burst forth into a small clearing amid the trees, Jim could see Cole and Rapsada standing slightly elevated among a scattering of boulders. The two had their phasers up and were shooting over their crewmates' heads before Jim had even cleared the shadows of the trees.

Jim was the last to skid to a stop beside the waiting Ensigns. He raised his communicator to his lips, voice clear and controlled despite everything.

"Prepare for beam up, Scotty," he demanded.

"Aye, Sir. Six to beam up on your command."

Jim saw Spock's brow crease.

"Beam them up, Scotty," he intoned grimly.

In the split second before the matter stream completely obscured his features, Jim saw Spock's head whip around, dark eyes fixing on him with unmistakable horror.

Then they were gone, and Jim was left standing alone in the clearing on an unfamiliar world, the yaps and growls of savage men rising behind him.

He swore vehemently in Romulan.


	2. Tricks of Desperation

Jim had been chased many times in the course of his life.

Some of those times he looked back on fondly, like when he had been six and Sam chased him around their backyard in Iowa with thick dollops of mud in his hands – back when Sam was the largest thing in Jim's world, and a faceful of mud was the worst thing to fear. Some he recalled with exhilaration, like the times in his early academy days when those cadets who resented his name and smart mouth and pretty face enough to turn to violence had chased him across darkened grounds – back when Jim had let them catch him more often than not just for the thrill of the fight and the fizzing in his blood that said yes, he was alive, he was _here._

Yet others he tried not to think about at all. Back when being on the run had been the furthest thing from fun or invigorating, and harsh breaths and pounding steps had been associated with the scent of burning flesh, the flash of deadly phaser fire and the sound of children weeping.

No matter how many times he had been chased, Jim never grew immune to its effects. To the way the adrenaline spiked through his veins and quickened everything from his heart to his thoughts. To the way the world sharpened – all angles and shadows and colours – beneath his direct gaze, and blurred chaotically just beyond it. To the way random details, such as the vivid red of a flower just before it was crushed beneath his boot, or the rough pull of bark beneath his fingers as he hauled himself over a log, jumped out at him with such burning clarity.

That been said, he reflected as he pushed his body across unfamiliar terrain with the material of his biosuit a suffocating pressure on his skin, being chased was - all in all – overrated. Without the epic background music, sound effects and changing perspectives used in holovids, it was mostly just sweaty and tedious and undercut by an exhausting current of fear.

His communication device crackled to life in his hand.

"Captain, there appears to have been a miscommunication during the course of the beam out. Please find a stable location in which to await emergency extraction."

Jim almost snorted at that – stable locations are a tad thin on the ground when you're being chased by cannibalistic science geeks - but he instead managed to huff, "No extraction, Spock."

Spock's response was swift and tinged with that edge he would always vehemently deny was frustration.

"Unacceptable, Captain, the situation on the surface-"

"I am well aware of the situation, thank you, Mr Spock," growled Jim as he swung himself over a large patch of what appeared to be rose bushes with thorns around seven inches long. "No extraction, that's an order. Stand by."

He clipped the communicator to his belt and turned his full attention to pulling ahead of his pursuers. However, this was easier said than done. The jungle that he was pushing his way through was becoming progressively thicker and more hostile, and while Jim was forced to temper his pace in order to avoid serious injury, his pursuers had not such qualms. They drove their bodies through thorns, branches and vines with a single-minded aggression that was chilling.

Jim became aware of a dull roar to his right, and quickly cut towards it, stunning a nearby infected as he did so. He knew that sound, and it could just be his salvation. He wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pushing his way through the jungle before the obstacles became insurmountable.

The dull roar grew louder. Jim quickened his pace, bursting forth from beneath the foliage into sunlight only to scramble madly to slow his pace as it became clear that the ground just ahead dropped off abruptly. What he had hoped would be simply a river was in fact a canyon. There was still a river, but the roaring waters were some forty feet below.

Jim peered over the edge of the drop, eyeing the number of protruding rocks below with morbid curiosity. He then retreated a few feet and considered. The crackling of underbrush a few metres away brought his head up, and he considered faster.

With a sigh, he ripped open the biosuit fastenings around his neck, thus allowing the hood and mask to hang at his nape. They were useless now, after all. He ran his fingers through his hair, checked the communicator on his belt to ensure that it was secure and then peered around hopefully, taking a few steps to the left, then the right as he scanned for other options. Any other options.

The first infected burst from the trees almost directly in front of him, sending him stumbling backwards. The man's strength was disproportionate to his average size as he attempted to claw Jim's newly-exposed eyes out. In the time it took to bring the guy down, another three had emerged a few metres to his right.

Jim took one look at their blank eyes and dripping mouths, and made a choice.

"Fuck this," he muttered decidedly, and with a few powerful strides, launched himself off the edge of the drop and plummeted towards the waters below.

He hit the water with incredible force, the jolt travelling from the base of his feet up through his spine and neck. For an instant, he was stunned, and hung entirely limp in the waters that churned and swirled around him. He was incredibly glad that he had taken a moment when he peered over the cliff's edge to memorise all the positions of the protruding rocks. Slamming into them with the amount of force he had hit the water with would have almost certainly killed him.

Jim kicked out weakly in an attempt to reach the surface, and was able to snatch a gasping breath before the force of the current pushed him under once more. Again and again, he struggled his way to the surface only to be forced back down after a few hasty breaths. The physical strain, along with the limited oxygen, left him weak and light-headed, and he could do little more than go where the current directed him and push off the occasional rock that the water slammed him into. In the tumultuous world of spray and foam and fractured sunlight, he swiftly lost all sense of time and direction.

It could have been minutes or hours later when the force of the water began to ease, and Jim was able to settle into a position floating on his back. He dragged ragged breaths through his parted lips, allowing the sweet air to bring him back from the brink of unconsciousness. It was a few moments before he was able to flip back over and use weak limbs to kick and pull himself towards the shore.

The first touch of solid ground beneath his scrabbling hands had him huffing in exhausted relief. He use his arms to pull himself the last few feet, marvelling distantly at how thin and insubstantial they felt after fighting against the immeasurable force of the river. He collapsed with his lower legs still submerged, and revelled in the flush of warmth the strange suns bestowed upon his aching body.

Over the sound of rushing water and his own choked breaths, Jim became aware of a buzzing nearby. As his ears cleared and his heart rate slowed, the buzzing resolved itself into Spock's firm and determinedly un-frantic tones. "Captain Kirk. Captain, please respond. Captain… _Jim_."

The communicator. In the early days of his captaincy, after learning the hard way from a few messy missions, he had sat down and spent an invaluable few days tinkering with their design in order to ensure that they were all entirely waterproof. He unhooked the device from his belt.

With a final rough cough, Jim cleared his throat and grunted a rough, "Spock."

Brief silence, followed by a barely-audible exhale, made it down the line. Then Spock's voice resumed, sounding as modulated and efficient as ever. "If I may, Captain, what is your situation?"

"Bruised, wet and grumpy," muttered Jim, taking his moment of respite to resent the incredible balls-up the day had become.

Spock's unimpressed, "Captain", was echoed by a growled, " _Jim"_ that could only have been produced by a very irate McCoy. Jim winced.

"Alright, sorry, just gathering my bearings. Keep your hair on."

It was a testament to how tense his First Officer must have been that he did not take this opportunity to deny the absurd human phrase. Jim got the message, and hastily scrambled to his feet in order to evaluate his surrounds.

"I can't be certain of my exact position. I'm a good few clicks North-West of the base, but I kinda lost track of the exact distance while in the river."

"The _river_?" interrupted Bones shrilly, but Jim ignored him.

"I'm still base-side, but I'm significantly closer to the foot of the mountains now. Two hours walk, maybe. Three, tops. Good news is, I've put some distance between me and the Lecter-wannabes back there, and they're unlikely to catch up anytime soon unless they take the cliff-jumping short cut."

" _Cliff jumping,_ " came McCoy's muffled groan, and the dull sound of what might have been someone's forehead striking a metal bulkhead repeatedly.

"Don't worry, Bones," chirped Jim cheerfully. "I'm intact."

A growing sting drew his eyes back to the jagged lines in the flesh of his inner forearm for the first time since the others beamed up, and he amended his answer to, "Mostly."

There was a brief pause.

"Captain," said Spock firmly, "Mr Scott has informed me that you gave him the order not to beam you out with the rest of the landing crew."

"That is correct." Jim paused, and then sighed audibly. "My biosuit's compromised, Spock."

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line that must have come from Bones. Spock was silent, and Jim could practically hear him assimilating this information into a range of existing calculations. If Jim knew Spock at all - and he liked to think that he did - he knew that the Vulcan had already drawn this conclusion from Jim's actions. It was only logical, after all.

"The compromise occurred while I was preoccupied with Mathers, after you pulled us aside," surmised Spock finally.

"Yes," affirmed Jim.

"And you did not tell me?"

Jim paused, choosing his words carefully. "I did not realise the compromise immediately. Once I had, it made little sense to delay the rest of you any further when only I was unfit for beam-out."

There was a strangled sound of frustration from Bones. Jim could practically see his fingers curling into claws. He was probably picturing them around Jim's neck. Spock was ominously silent.

"'Compromise' doesn't give me much to work with, Jim," spat Bones. "What kind of injuries are we talking about here?"

"It's just a scratch, Bones," Jim attempted to soothe, with very little success.

" _I_ am the doctor, Jim. _I_ will decide what constitutes a 'just a scratch'. Particularly when I know from long experience that you are about as able to gauge the severity of your injuries as you are to _keep your bloody friends informed._ "

Jim flinched. "Bones, that's not-"

"Shut up, Jim. Just give me a rundown of injuries. And you had better be honest or I swear to God, savages or no savages, I will beam back down there and kick your ass."

Spock interrupted. "Doctor, perhaps-"

"You can shut up as well, hobgoblin. If we've established he's not in any immediate danger from attack or _drowning_ , then we have time for me to do my damn job and give the man a medical assessment. Or the best version of one that I can manage from up here." McCoy's voice was heavy with frustration and poorly-hidden worry, and that more than anything motivated Jim to co-operate.

"Alright, Bones. Alright." Jim swiftly stripped the biosuit to his waist, and evaluated the wound in his arm. It was deeper than he would have liked, though the bleeding had slowed to almost nothing. He had a moment of hoping there were no potential contaminants in the water, before remembering that that ship had more or less sailed.

"Three lacerations on my inner left forearm, longest of which is just under five inches. No more than a quarter-inch deep at their worst." He paused for a moment, rolling his shoulders and doing a quick full-body evaluation. Then he continued.

"Minor bruising to my torso. Slight strain in my left knee. Nothing broken, no other cuts or scrapes."

"Are the lacerations bleeding?" demanded McCoy.

"Barely," replied Jim. "I've got some strips on me that'll do as bandages. I'll strap it up as soon as I've given it a clean."

McCoy sighed heavily, and Jim closed his eyes at the defeat in his friend's voice when he said, "Yeah, do that. Not really much else I can do from up here 'cept tell you to keep it clean and take things easy. Sorry Jim."

"S'alright, Bones. That's quality medical advice right there. And you know I'm more the 'heal-as-I-go' type anyway."

McCoy snorted. "Do I."

There was a slight shuffling noise, and then Spock's voice emerged from the communicator once more. "Mr Scott is attempting to determine your exact position, Captain, but the residual disturbance from the storm may cause a delay in the process."

The pointed nature of Spock's statement made it sound as if the delay would be of very short duration if he had anything to do with it, and indeed, he continued with a clipped, "1.2 hours at maximum."

Jim smiled tiredly. "Sounds good, Spock. You're Acting Captain, as I'm sure you know. Obviously your priority is to keep whatever's going on down here contained, but I imagine you'll be collecting samples, working on a cure?" His voice grew sad as he thought of the twisted faces of the infected scientists. "Lotta sick people down here, Spock. There were children…." He trailed off.

"Affirmative, Captain," stated Spock firmly. "We're working on modifying a few unmanned research drones now. We believe they will be able to collect samples from the planet surface and keep them contained within airtight capsules upon return to the Enterprise. Every precaution will be taken, but we will find a cure for whatever is afflicting the surface population."

"You're sure?" said Jim worriedly. "There will be no risk to the crew?"

"None, Captain."

Spock's voice gentled almost imperceptibly as he added, "I will ensure that the crew remains safe." His tone then firmed pointedly. "All of them."

Jim smiled, though his throat tightened slightly. "I trust you, Mr Spock."

"Captain," began Spock, sounding somewhat strained, and Jim knew what was coming.

"I can't be beamed aboard, Spock," interrupted Jim firmly. "Not until we know how this thing is transmitted, and whether I've been infected. Let's face it, though, with my luck I most certainly have."

Jim heard McCoy sigh in the background. "Just be careful, Jim. You say we need to find a cure for the people down there? Well, that's on you too. The longer you can keep going and keep us updated on any symptoms, the more information we have to bring this thing down. Don't go throwing yourself into any stupid situations."

Jim made a face at McCoy's blatant attempts to manipulate him into looking after himself, but he only said, "Me, throw myself into stupid situations? Why, Bones, it's like you don't know me at all."

McCoy grumbled half-heartedly. "Just stay safe, Jim."

"I will," he replied seriously. Then he straightened up and rolled his shoulders determinedly.

"Well, you both have science stuff to do, and I have a home-base to set up. I'm thinking I'll head towards those mountains and find myself a safe spot for the night. No over-sized wildlife for me to worry about, right, Spock?"

"Only the base inhabitants, Captain," stated Spock.

"Thanks for the reminder," deadpanned Jim. "I'll check in every two hours-"

"Every hour," interjected Spock firmly, and Jim nodded reluctantly.

"Every hour, then, and I'll let you know if I pick up anything useful along the way. Kirk out."

Kirk took a few moments to wash and bind the wound on his forearm, and drink his fill from the river. Then, with the communicator and his phaser stowed safely in his belt, and the upper part of the biosuit strapped firmly about his waist so as not to hinder his movement, Jim struck out towards the looming blue-black mountains.


	3. How Bold Waves Tremble

If someone were to ask Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy for his views on Jim Kirk, he would tell them that the man was a thorn in his proverbial backside. He would say that it was easier to get a cat under a showerhead than Kirk under a hypospray, and that being the man's Doctor had taken more years off his life than he had lost hairs on his head. He would tell them that Jim was the most insufferable, smart-mouthed and brilliant Captain in known space, and probably far beyond. He would tell them that he trusted Jim Kirk with his life.

What he would not tell them is that he would trust Jim with far more than just his life. He would trust Jim with his daughter's life, the one thing in the universe which he valued above all else. He would trust Jim with his secrets, and his bitter disappointments, and the few ragged dreams that had survived his thirty-odd years. He would trust Jim to soothe him on those nights when old memories and regrets rose up like so much black smoke and forced him to retreat so far into the bottle that he was unsure of everything but his name and the blue-eyed kid at his side. He would trust Jim to kick his ass in the mornings after, and taunt him out of apathy and self-pity.

He would not tell them that he viewed Jim as a best friend and a brother, and that what he wished for more than anything was to see the bright-eyed, restless and world-weary young man content.

It was with a kind of resigned horror that McCoy realised Jim Kirk was still on-planet after the beam out. The first thing he did was curse himself for taking his eyes of his touble-prone best friend for even a second. The second thing was to palm the snivelling Mathers off to a concerned Christine Chapel and co.

Spock was at Scotty's side seemingly before the beam up was even complete, talking to Jim through his communicator and eyeing the quailing Chief Engineer with an unforgiving eye. McCoy joined him in time to hear Jim's terse, "Standby" from the other end of the line, and then nothing.

"Spock? What the hell is going on? Why is Jim still down there?"

Spock did not answer, turning instead to the Chief engineer. Scotty held up his hands defensively.

"Dinnae look a' me, Sir, ye'd have a better idea than I would. All I know is wha' he told me: no' tae beam him up when the time came."

Spock's fingers clenched in an uncharacteristic show of frustration.

"He has ordered that we make no further attempts to beam him out," affirmed Spock stiffly.

McCoy gaped. "He…what? But it's a death-trap down there! Those people are sick, and dangerous. Bugger whatever Jim's thinking, we need to get him out of there."

"We cannot go against the Captain's explicit orders, Doctor. He would not take these actions without a reason."

" _What_ reason?" yelled McCoy, his fear – as always – finding refuge in anger.

Spock's eyes flashed, and McCoy could see, in that instant, that he knew – or at least thought he did. He could also see, from the paling around the Vulcan's lips and the tightening of his jaw, that he probably would not like the answer.

"I am sure the Captain will tell us in due course," responded Spock tightly. "Until that time, both Uhura and I will attempt to hail him periodically. Doctor?"

McCoy, who had been backsliding inward in his worry, jerked his head up to meet the Vulcan's gaze.

"If I can find a way to bring diseased tissue and samples on board without risking the spread of infection, do you have the facilities to begin working on a possible treatment for those on the surface?"

McCoy was somewhat thrown off balance by the seemingly abrupt change in the Vulcan's focus, but he nodded distractedly. "Yes, yes, of course…I can work on it…but what about Jim?"

"The Captain would want us to continue as we always have in his absence, and assist those in need. Would you not agree, Doctor?"

McCoy nodded, first absently, then with growing conviction.

"Alright, Spock. But until you find some way of getting those samples aboard, you're not getting rid of me. I will be there when you make contact with Jim, to see what damn-fool situation the idiot's got himself into now."

To McCoy's surprise, Spock made no protest, only nodding briskly and exiting the transporter room at a clipped pace.

And so McCoy was with Spock as he hailed Jim periodically every ten minutes. He stood by as the slight but ever-growing strain in the Vulcan's voice grew with every failure to respond. He was there as Spock vented his worry in the most Vulcan way he possibly could – through emotionless, if abrupt, orders to his science team, and unflinching focus on the solving of his current problem.

He was there to witness the moment in which Jim's choked voice finally responded, and through the haze of his own relief, he saw the almost imperceptible relaxing of the Vulcan's shoulders, and the way his eyes slipped closed for just a moment.

Their relief was short-lived, of course. Jim was alive, but he was compromised and wounded and alone. And so fucking far away that it made McCoy want to scream. He wanted to strangle Jim at his casual dismissal of the fact that he failed to tell any of them about his injury before sending them off planet – of his twisted inference that he was not important enough to worry about leaving behind. He wanted to shake him, and hug him, and call him an idiot for ever thinking such a thing could be okay.

He settled for scolding him, and giving him some medical advice that any half-baked ensign could have come up with.

God, he hated this.

At least Spock's fixation on finding a cure had become clear. Of course, the hobgoblin would no doubt be working on one in any case, but the almost manic focus and barely suppressed energy in the normally placid Vulcan was something that could only be attributed to the threat to Jim.

Sometimes McCoy wondered…

He shook off the thought and exited the science lab determinedly, with a promise from Spock that samples would be sent for analysis as soon as they were available. Jim's personal life and what you should-and-should-not-share-with-best-friends could wait until the idiot was safely on board.

For now, he had a medbay to prep.

XXX

Jim's estimate on the distance to the mountains had been fairly accurate. After just over three hours of walking, and three check-ins to the Enterprise, he was skirting the rough fringe of the slopes.

The second sun was low in the sky when he delved into the fold between two slopes to find a promising looking hollow in the mountain face above him. The entrance to the cave was about twenty feet from where he stood at the base of the valley, and he had to scramble and climb to reach it. It was not the first time he had had cause to be grateful for his skill at rock-climbing, however unsavoury the origins of the habit.

He reached the cave entrance, and flopped – exhausted – onto the cool ledge that jutted out a few feet in front of it. Every muscle in his body ached and he was beginning to fear that it was not just the result of his battering in the river, as he had previously hoped. While his earlier antics might explain the muscle-aches, they could not account for the piercing pain that had set-in just behind his eyes, nor the tight, hot feeling of his skin beneath his clothes. Though it was less than a day old, the wound beneath his rough bandages already felt infected – swollen and throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Jim was sick, and he was neither foolish nor hopeful enough to deny it any longer.

He hauled himself up after a few moments reflection, and dragged his body through the cave entrance. There, he perked up slightly. Sure, it was no Enterprise Captain's quarters – and oh, what he wouldn't do for five minutes in his own bed right about now – but it was dry and oddly cosy, with a flat floor which extended about thirteen feet from the entrance before curving up into shadow. The roof of the cave was high enough that he could stand easily without fear of bumping his head. While the size of the space wouldn't allow for much conservation of heat should the weather change for the worse, in the warm climes it made for a cosy and comfortable base.

Stepping outside, Jim was pleased to see that the angle of the cave relative to the entrance of the valley would make it difficult to see unless you were almost on top of it. The recent storm had also left small catchments of water at intervals all along the slope, meaning that Kirk was unlikely to run out of fresh water any time soon.

Despite the fortuitous positioning of the cave, Jim was interested in taking a few more precautions before he lost the last of his light to the sun's descent behind the peaks. He rolled his shoulders and headed a small way down the slope to where he had seen a few shallowly-rooted bushes on his way up.

It took little effort to yank the bushes from the ground, so Jim was surprised when his exertions left him feeling weak and shaky. On the way back up the slope, dragging the spiky branches behind him, he found himself needing to stop several times in order ease the spinning in his head.

"Fucking fantastic," he muttered bitterly as he finally dropped the bushes at the entrance of the cave, and had to sit abruptly and rest for a moment. He breathed steadily in and out, before rising to collect a few largish stones from his surrounds. Luckily, there was scree scattered just below the cave entrance, so he did not need to go far.

He allowed a few stones to clatter to the floor just inside the cave, and breathed in and out steadily, attempting to gentle the tremors in his hands. His trepidation grew when it made little difference.

He jumped when Spock's voice came through the communicator.

"Enterprise to Captain Kirk."

He fumbled the device from his belt. "Kirk here."

"Captain, it has been 1.125 hours since your last check-in. Are you experiencing any difficulties?"

Jim relaxed with slight twitch of his lips. "Apologies for my tardiness, Commander. I've found a place to rest for the night and was just making a few adjustments before dark falls."

"I trust that your current location is secure."

"As secure as it's going to get, Spock. I'm in a cave about eight clicks South-West of the compound. Seem to be quite a few up in these mountains." He wedged the com unit in his belt as he began dragging the brush he had collected over the entrance of the cave.

"Unoccupied, Captain?"

"Seems that way, Spock, but I am taking precautions."

There was a very un-Spock-like snort from the other end of the line.

"Precautions like stranding yourself, alone, on a toxic planet? Forgive me if I'm a tad sceptical of your danger-gauge, 'Captain'."

There was only one person who could say 'Captain' as if it were a dirty word.

"Bones!" crowed Jim, with a heartfelt grin.

"Still haven't forgiven me for that, huh? You know, it's very unscientific to base your assumptions off a single case. I'm usually the embodiment of responsible behaviour – look before you leap and all that." He almost dropped one of the branches he was positioning as his hands spasmed, and grimaced. "Besides, this planet is in fact remarkably pleasant, when you disregard the diseased and homicidal settlers."

"Who would disregard that?" demanded McCoy, but he sounded more amused than angry.

"Captain," cut in Spock. "Doctor McCoy is present to receive an update on your physical health. Are you experiencing any symptoms at this point?"

"What, my mental health not interesting to you guys?" deflected Jim lightly, unwilling to vocalise his symptoms just yet.

"Hardly," snorted McCoy. "I've know you're a few chickens short of a roost for years now, Jim. It's not really news anymore."

"Careful, Bones, your Georgia is showing. And should I be offended?"

"Captain." Spock sounded almost impatient now, and Jim new his stalling was drawing to a close. "It is of vital importance that we know of any symptoms you might be exhibiting."

Jim made a last ditch effort. "Aw, come on, Spock, aren't you gonna ease a guy into it?"

"Jim," said McCoy quietly, and the blonde man sighed.

"Alright," he acquiesced. "But for the record neither of you have any conception of 'small talk'."

He paused in his activities at the cave entrance, and gathered his thoughts.

"I've got a bit of joint and muscle pain, but I can't be sure of how much of that is due to my body's rough treatment earlier. I'm running a bit warmer than usual as well – skin feels a little hot and uncomfortable."

"How much warmer?" asked McCoy.

"Not sure, Bones. Maybe 100˚?"

He heard Bones take a note somewhere. "Go on."

"Well, slight headache started up 'bout…a half hour back? It's…grown a bit since then."

"Like one of your migraines?" interrupted McCoy, sounding concerned.

"Nah, nothing that bad."

"You sure?"

Jim shook his head fondly. "Yes, Bones, I'm sure."

Spock spoke softly. "I was unaware that you suffered from migraines, Captain."

"Not often, Spock, and far less since Bones spotted them for what they were and prescribed me meds."

Spock was silent again, and McCoy prompted, "Anything else?"

Jim huffed a breath, considering. "M'hands are a bit shaky, overall I'm feeling a bit run down, but again, that could be because of everything that's happened today."

"Jim, I've seen you strangled, jettisoned off a ship, roughed up by ice monsters, and still ready to jump up and tussle with a Romulan death ship. And you're telling me _today's_ activities have got you feeling rough?"

There was a small sound from Spock on the other side of the line, like a cough, which while insignificant from any other person, was fairly noticeable from a Vulcan. Jim winced, and made a note to chat to McCoy about tact.

Out loud, he said, "Alright, you've made your point, Bones. It's not just the consequences of cliff jumping."

A heavy silence fell between the three of them as they all considered the implications of this. It was broken by McCoy clearing his throat and asking gruffly, "That all?"

"Yeah, Bones, that's all," muttered Jim tiredly. "Now how about you guys tell me some good news? How's the location hunt coming, Spock? Know where I am yet?"

"Negative, Captain," said Spock, and Jim could tell that the hint of annoyance in his voice was self-directed. "It would seem that the mountain rock surrounding your location contains an element that is interfering with our signal. Any effort to triangulate your exact position have been so far unsuccessful."

Jim hated how put out the Vulcan sounded about this failure, but he could not help but be slightly relieved that his crew was unable to locate him. While he was confident that they knew it was best to keep all crew-members off-planet until a cure was found, and that it was equally wise not to bring him back aboard before then, he could not help but fear that certain members of his crew might do something foolish – like beam down to assist him – should they be concerned enough for his wellbeing. This way, they did not have that option.

"Don't worry, Spock," he murmured. "You'll figure it out."

"Vulcan's do not-" began Spock, but he was interrupted by McCoy's disbelieving groan.

"Don't even start, you green-blooded hobgoblin, I have no patience for your 'Vulcan's do not X, Y and Z' bullshit today. Get over yourself, would you?"

"That would be impossible, Doctor," responded Spock coolly, "as I am, in fact, myself."

McCoy groaned again, and Jim grinned. He knew Spock understood exactly what McCoy was trying to say, but he wasn't about to ruin the Vulcan's fun.

His hands started to shake again, and he tucked them absently between his knees.

"What else can you guys tell me?" he asked.

McCoy was still grumbling about Vulcans and sticks in never-sunlit places, so Spock was the one to reply.

"We are ready to begin efforts to extract tissue samples from the surface," he declared.

"You're sure it's safe?" Jim halted in the act of shifting into a more comfortable position, alarmed.

"Yes, Captain," said Spock, the gentle familiarity in his tone betraying his sensitivity to Jim's anxiety. "I would not initiate operations otherwise."

Jim huffed a breath, and told himself that the quiver in his fingers as he adjusted branches around the mouth of the cave was relief. He blinked in surprise when his forearm spasmed abruptly, causing him to knock a branch out of position.

Spock continued. "The unmanned units will be successful. Once the samples are safely aboard, we can begin preliminary analysis."

"I should leave you guys alone more often," quipped Jim, shifting uncomfortably as the tremor in his hands seemed to spread up his arms to settle in his chest and shoulders. "You w-work quickly."

"I am sure we are capable of the same efficiency with you present, Captain," responded Spock. "We are accustomed to working around you, after all."

Jim laughed. "Touché, Mr S-Spock. I'll have to up my g-game."

"Jim," came McCoy's voice, sounding concerned, "are you cold? According to surface readings, the temperature should be more than warm enough down there. Is there a problem?"

Jim frowned. The tremors that had been restricted to his hands only moments earlier – and that he had disregarded as no cause for concern – now seemed to be wracking his entire body. Even as McCoy finished speaking, a random muscle spasm in his forearm caused his knuckles to strike the stone wall of the cave hard, and he hissed.

"Jim?" queried McCoy.

"D-dunno, Bones," stuttered Jim, noticing the twitch of muscles in his jaw for the first time. "J-just feeling a b-bit shaky. Muscle sp-asms."

"You didn't mention it was like this earlier." McCoy definitely sounded worried now.

"C-cause it wasn't l-like this earlier, B-bones," huffed Jim, annoyed.

Jim cried out as the pain in his head spiked abruptly, coupled with a full-body spasm that left him trembling with aftershocks.

"Jim?" demanded McCoy. "What's happening? Are you in pain?"

Jim opened his mouth to answer, and buckled as agony ripped through his head again. His legs had started to jerk spastically, and he pulled them up against his body, anchoring them with his trembling arms. A particularly violent jerk knocked his head against the wall behind him, and he groaned.

"B-Bones. Head h-hurts," he managed, curling over to press his throbbing temples to his knees.

"Jim, I need you to focus and answer me, alright? Are the muscle spasms only in certain places, or are they throughout your body."

"Thr-th-thr-." Jim grunted in frustration as his tongue refused to co-operate, and forced out, "Throughout."

"Good, Jim, well done. And the pain in your head, how bad is it on a scale of one to ten?"

Jim whined as the pain in his head spiked again. Unlike last times when it dulled immediately afterwards, this time the agony was sustained, and the mounting pressure was like the waters of a dam building within his skull. His eyes felt compressed, and his ears popped strangely.

"-aptain? Jim?" He became aware of Spock's alarmed voice coming from somewhere to his left, and he wondered absently how long he had been calling.

"S-Spock?" he slurred.

"Yes, Jim. I need you to focus and answer Doctor McCoy's question. How bad is the pain in your head, Jim?"

"H-hurts," hissed Jim, not quite following the line of questioning.

"One to ten, Jimmy, I need a number," came McCoy's tense tones.

Jim forced himself to focus. "Nine," he grunted finally. "B-b-but it's g-getting w-worse."

McCoy swore viciously.

"B-b-bones?" whispered Jim, hurting and afraid.

"S'okay, Jimmy, it's gonna be fine." McCoy spoke in soothing tones, and Jim wanted nothing more than to be able to curl into his closest friend and let him make the pain go away.

Another violent full-body spasm jerked his legs out of the hold his arms had on them. His head and shoulders struck the cool stone wall violently, before the aftershocks had him crumpling on his side in helpless agony. The dig of the com unit into the flesh of his hip was a stark reminder of how alone he was.

The pressure in his head built and he keened in pain.

"B-b-bones?" he begged. "I d-don't f-feel s-s-so g-good."

The strain in McCoy's voice suggested he was close to tears, but his words were calm and soothing. "It's alright, Jimmy, just listen to me, okay? I need you to put your com unit down by the wall, alright? And then I need to move a bit away and lie down where it's flat, okay? Make sure you're away from the walls when you lie down. You got that, Jimmy?"

It was a lot for Jim to take in in his pain-muddled state. Part of him, the part that was entirely overwhelmed, was panicking, because his body was out of control and his head was splitting open and Bones was calling him Jimmy and Bones only ever called him that when Bones was scared. Jim wished he knew what there was to be scared of.

But then he heard Spock's voice, and it grounded him like nothing else could, for although the tone was gentle, it was also firm and utterly controlled. There was not a hint of fear in his words as he said, "Jim. Please. You need to listen to Doctor McCoy."

"K-kay, Spock," mumbled Jim. And he forced himself to move.

It took three attempts to get the communicator unhooked from his belt, and the tremors were growing worse all the time. When it finally came loose, it clattered to the ground near the wall, and Jim had neither the energy, nor focus to move it. Instead, he began to haul his twisting and spasming body towards the centre of the cave floor, McCoy and Spock's encouraging words pushing him forwards.

Several times, the pain in his head grew to unbearable proportions, and he could only cling to the cave floor, keening and shuddering, as his limbs twitched uncontrollably. Once, he was sure he had lost himself completely for a moment, and only the irate tones of Bone's distress roused him from his insensibility.

It didn't take him long to reach his limit, and he curled up on his side, facing the com unit a few feet away. The wrenching full-body spasms were coming almost continuously now, leaving very little time to recover between them, and Jim could only close his eyes and ride them out. The agony in his head was all-consuming. He could not see anymore. It could be because the second sun had finally set, but he couldn't be sure. He wasn't sure of anything outside the pain.

"B-b-bones," he whimpered, beyond pride in his agony.

"I'm here, Jimmy. Can you tell me how you are? Has anything changed?"

The words scattered and were lost amid the pain. Jim was vaguely aware that McCoy wanted something from him, but the splintering of his skull escalated and seemed to twist inwards, driving itself into the heart of his being and stripping away all but the simplest impressions. He struggled to push through.

"D-d-dark. C's-s-see…h-hur's, B-b-bones. Sp-p-"

"Sh, Jim, it's okay, just talk when you're able to, alright? Don't force anything. Spock and I are here."

"D'g-go."

"Jesus, kid," choked McCoy. "We're not going anywhere. Just breath for me, kay? Just breathe."

Jim did, and for a moment, the agony in his head seemed to abate.

He twitched. "B-b-bones, I th-think-"

And then there was only pain, followed by nothing.


	4. How Dread Trident Shakes

Spock had thought many things about Jim Kirk in the early days of their acquaintance. He had thought him to be a cheat, and a disgrace to the Starfleet uniform that he wore. He had considered him to be overly emotional and incurably egotistical, with a disregard for both his own and others' wellbeing that would no doubt get any crew under his command killed. He had thought him to be, as humans would say, 'all hype and no substance', riding on the coat-tails of his dead father and making a mockery of all those values Vulcans hold paramount.

Even after the events surrounding the destruction of the Narada, Spock had remained sceptical. While he could admit that Kirk had displayed a hitherto hidden capacity for logic and leadership, in isolation the events of the battle could not be ruled out as an instance of uncommon good fortune. Indeed, any number of Kirk's risky decisions during those chaotic days could have ended in unmitigated catastrophe.

When he had signed on as First Officer for the Starship Enterprise, he had vowed not to allow himself to be drawn in by Kirk's ever-growing reputation – fuelled by Earth and Starfleet media – as a young hero and roguish genius. His intentions in accepting the position had been as much about monitoring and tempering any outlandish actions taken by the boy Captain as pursuing his older counterpart's claims of a self-defining friendship.

During those first few months of uneasy partnership, Kirk and Spock had clashed over near everything. Where others would co-operate with Kirk's nonsensical and often unorthodox plans, Spock would question and refute and demand they adhere to a route more aligned with regulation. Where Spock would list evidence and probabilities against an idea, Jim would listen and nod and then venture forward with it anyway, often grinning and jesting as he did so. Jim Kirk, it would seem, was everything a Vulcan was not, and their relationship appeared doomed to be one fraught with tension and conflict. They were simply incompatible on a fundamental level.

There was no distinct moment in the course of their interactions that changed this. No point at which either received some revelation regarding the other's behaviour, or fundamental shift in their attitudes. The process was gradual, and involved Spock being forced to confess himself utterly bemused by Kirk's ability to defy the odds in any given situation. Possibilities that Spock would automatically rule out as too risky to undertake, Kirk would embrace and pursue with a staggering success rate. More and more, it became impossible, and furthermore illogical, for Spock to conflate these myriad victories with luck.

Over time, Kirk and Spock began to learn how to communicate with one another without immediately offending or dismissing the other. With increased cohesion and camaraderie among the crew came a mutual interest in capitalising on one another's strengths rather than targeting one other's weaknesses. They started to trust one another, however tentatively, to always work in the best interests of the crew and the mission.

There were several instances Spock could call up from his memory that augmented this trust, of course. Like the time they had crawled together through the ducts of the ship, communicating wordlessly and working together seamlessly to ambush a crew of Orion pirates who had occupied the bridge. Or the time, before Spock and Uhura had ended their romantic association, when Kirk had allowed Spock to be part of negotiations for her release from imprisonment on a hostile planet despite his potential emotional compromise.

There was the time Jim had developed a rare strain of Lutherian flu, and in his feverish state had begun obsessively working his way through the Kobayashi Maru codes again and again, scrawling his calculations across paper and floor and walls. Spock had sat with him all through the night and assisted him in finding the best ways to break his own codes. Or the time a hallucinogenic compound was slipped into Spock's drink at a diplomatic ball, causing all his mental shields to collapse, and Jim had stood over his crumpled and shaking form with his phaser drawn – uncaring of the political scandal he might cause – and threatened to drop anyone who dared to try and touch or even come within ten feet of his First Officer.

They had fought beside one another on enemy ships, beneath alien skies and within hostile territories. And gradually, Spock's attitude towards Jim Kirk had morphed from irate caution, to reluctant admiration, and finally to bewildered yet unashamed fascination.

2.542 years into their five year mission, and Spock and Jim now met for chess on a bi-weekly basis, and ate meals together in the mess hall or one another's quarters most every other night. Somewhere during the course of their association, conversations around missions and crew satisfaction and optimal alterations in engineering had morphed into friendly debates about contemporary theories of physics and Vulcan music and the merits of old Earth literature. It was remarkably pleasant, and while Uhura remained Spock's closest friend, he was quickly coming to realise that Jim was responsible for the reshaping of Spock's world in ways he was not yet sure he understood.

And this was why – Vulcan or no - Spock found himself gripped by absolute and uncharacteristic terror in instances such as these. Because the idea of finishing his shift on the Enterprise bridge, retiring to his quarters and not having Jim one cabin down from him – available for chess or a debate or simply a silent meal – made something twist horribly in his side. Spock had never been one to ground himself in people. Knowledge, ideas, tennets, yes, but not people. So the idea that the loss of just one person might unbalance a self he had thought immune to such changes was not something he knew how to process.

He watched avidly as the crease between McCoy's eyes deepened and he demanded to know what was happening on the other end of the com.

"Jim? What's happening? Are you in pain?"

Jim's voice, when it came through, was stilted and strained.

"B-Bones. Head h-hurts."

Spock felt his heart rate pick up – something he would consider an anomaly were it not for the fact that it seemed to occur whenever Jim was in danger these days. He diverted a small amount of attention to bringing the physical response under control, and eyed McCoy.

The Doctor had his entire upper body bent over the communicator, knuckles white as he gripped the edges of his desk, as if he could launch himself straight through the device to Jim's side. His voice, however, remained clipped and professional.

"Jim, I need you to focus and answer me, alright? Are the muscle spasms only in certain places, or are they throughout your body?"

"Thr-th-thr-." There was a harsh grunt on the other end of the line that betrayed Jim's frustration at his own incoherency. "Throughout," he managed finally.

McCoy closed his eyes, something like despair washing over his features, and Spock reflected briefly on how difficult it must be to hear the suffering of a patient – let alone a friend – and be unable to do anything to alleviate it. He had many quarrels with the Doctor, but the man's devotion to his charges was not one of them.

"Good, Jim, well done," praised McCoy, his professional tone only slightly strained. "And the pain in your head, how bad is it on a scale of one to ten?"

The pained whine that followed McCoy's question had Spock's hands tightening into fists where they rested behind his back. He barely noticed when his fingernails broke the flesh of his palms. After a painful moment of watching McCoy fail to garner a response through the com, he stepped forward.

"Captain? Captain, it is important that you respond to the Doctor. Please Captain. Captain? Jim?"

Both Spock and McCoy jolted like a current had passed through them when Jim finally responded.

"S-Spock?" The voice was slurred and confused, as if Jim wasn't quite certain of what he was answering to, but Spock felt the relief of his reply in every part of his being.

"Yes, Jim. I need you to focus and answer Doctor McCoy's question. How bad is the pain in your head, Jim?"

It became ever more evident that Jim's coherency was failing when the only reply they received was a whispered, "H-hurts."

McCoy stepped back in, elbowing Spock out of the way almost roughly in his haste. Spock neither commented nor cared.

"One to ten, Jimmy, I need a number," demanded McCoy roughly. Spock felt distant surprise at the endearment, but dismissed it swiftly for later processing.

"Eight," came the muffled grunt after a few more tense seconds. "B-b-but it's g-getting w-worse."

McCoy swore viciously. He glanced at Spock and muttered under his breath, "Never heard him admit to more than a six even during his worst migraines."

"B-b-bones?" whispered Jim's voice, and Spock felt another violent twist in his side at his lost tone.

McCoy's head whipped back to the communicator so quickly that Spock heard his neck crack, and his voice when he spoke was low and soothing – almost cooing. It was so very far removed from what he knew of the brash country doctor that he could only stare.

"S'okay, Jim, it's gonna be fine."

There was a shuffling sound from the other side of the communicator – like the slide of jerking limbs against stone floors – and then a distinct thud that had McCoy flinching and Spock's fingernails biting into his palms anew. There was a low keen, followed by Jim's voice – as close to begging as Spock had ever heard it.

"B-B-Bones? I d-don't f-feel s-s-so g-good."

McCoy muffled a dry, angry sob behind his fist, and Spock was unsurprised to see a distinct sheen in the Doctor's eyes. He himself wanted to break something.

McCoy spoke as calmly as Spock believed he was capable of. "It's alright, Jimmy, just listen to me, okay? I need you to put your com unit down by the wall, alright? And then I need you to move a bit away and lie down where it's flat, okay? Make sure you're away from the walls when you lie down. You got that, Jimmy?"

He muttered to Spock under his breath as they waited for Jim to answer, "He's probably going to have a seizure, and if so I don't want the com unit or anything else getting in the way." He turned his eyes on the Vulcan and Spock almost flinched at the raw pain there – McCoy had never been one to hide his true emotions. "There's nothing else I can do for him. Not from up here."

Spock had no response to give that – not when he felt as least as helpless as the Doctor did – so he turned to the com unit instead.

"Jim. Please. You need to listen to Doctor McCoy."

The reply that came through the com was weakened by pain and achingly trusting. "K-kay, Spock."

Spock closed his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed as those two words reached just below his chest and twisted sharply.

There was a sharp clatter that seemed to shudder through both Spock and McCoy in their high-strung state, followed by the agonising sounds of Jim dragging his body across the cave floor. McCoy kept up a steady stream of soothing encouragement, and though Spock did not know what to say, he added to it each time the Doctor glanced his way.

Finally, there was silence, broken by a whimpered, "B-B-Bones."

McCoy bent so near to the com unit that his nose was practically brushing the dials.

"I'm here, Jimmy," he breathed. "Can you tell me how you are? Has anything changed?"

When Jim spoke, Spock almost wished he hadn't replied. His words were fractured and almost incomprehensible, and to hear such a strong man so weak and pained that he could not even force full words past his lips was irrefutably wrong.

"D-d-dark. C's-s-see…h-hur's, B-B-Bones. Sp-p-"

McCoy obviously felt the same way as Spock, because he interrupted swiftly, eyes bloodshot and tortured.

"Sh, Jim, it's okay, just talk when you're able to, alright? Don't force anything. Spock and I are here."

"D'g-go," came the soft plea.

McCoy actually doubled over, as if someone had just struck him in the diaphragm.

"Jesus, kid," he choked out, fist pressed hard enough against his mouth to bruise. He straightened abruptly, clearly trying to regain his shattered composure. "We're not going anywhere. Just breathe for me, kay? Just breathe."

There were are few moments in which all that could be heard from the other end of the line were rough pants, slowing gradually.

There was a soft sound. "B-B-Bones, I th-think-"

And then there only rough grunts, and the horrible sounds of limbs and flesh striking randomly against stone.

"Jim?" cried McCoy, frantic now. "Jim, Jimmy, answer me, goddammit, Jim!"

"He is seizing, Doctor," interjected Spock stiffly, though his own lips felt numbed by the words. "He cannot hear you."

McCoy shoulders jerked, and he rounded on the Vulcan, grief warring with fury in his gaze.

"Don't tell me my job, goddammit! I'm a _doctor,_ I _know_ he's seizing, I know, I just-." He broke off abruptly, covering his face with his hands and raking them up through his hair with enough violence to tear more than a few follicles from his scalp. His eyes were wild, and he seemed torn between breaking into sobs and throwing the com unit across the room.

Oddly enough for the watching Vulcan, he found he could relate. The only reason Spock's hands were not obviously shaking was because they were clasped behind his back, tightly enough to bruise.

They both stood motionless throughout the four minutes of grunts and fleshy thuds emanating from the com unit, gaze trained firmly away from the device and each other. In the endless moment after silence finally fell on the other end of the line, McCoy turned his back on Spock and slumped dejectedly.

"Get out of here, Spock," he rasped. "Go get those damn units prepped and down on that hellhole so that we can figure out what the hell this is and fix it."

Spock hesitated, eyes flicking to the com unit with an expression that McCoy might have found shockingly raw had he been looking, before schooling his features and striding from the room.

Had Spock glanced back, he might have seen the Doctor collapse over the communicator with his head in his hands, already murmuring uselessly to the insensible man on the other side.


	5. Tread the Water

_"…swear to God, Jim, if you don't approve all my requests for new equipment when this is all over I'm rioting. There will be hyposprays involved, I warn…Chapel all over my back, you know. I'll rest when I'm dead, woman…Never seen anything quite like this. I'll give you that, Jim, you know how to keep a guy interested…"_

Jim did not wake all at once. Rather, he rose through the layers of consciousness by tortured degrees, and drifted for a while in that realm between dreams and waking where thoughts seem to spin out across eons and physical sensations are no more substantial than smoke on the breeze.

 _"…eleven, twelve, thirteen…fifty-six, fifty-seven – fuck I need a drink – fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one…"_

His first real awareness was of cool stone pressed against his cheek, and he experienced a moment of genuine bewilderment. There was no stone in his quarters, was there? And besides, no surface in his rooms was ever cool. It was always warmed by the faint hum of engines and electronics resting just beneath the surface.

 _"…got at least ten distinct possibilities here, Jim, but that's…narrow it down in no time…-ods, you've got me trying my hand at_ optimism _…bloody_ fu _…"_

This lead him to his second awareness – there was no hum. The faint underlying vibrations that always permeated every part of the Enterprise, and which he associated with home in a way he never had anything else, were conspicuously absent. He sighed softly – not on board his girl then.

 _"…bloody quiet around here, you…no bloody foolish infants interrupting me all hours of the day, almost…strange, though, so you better wake up soon, you bastar…"_

From here, the rise into consciousness steepened abruptly. Though he was not yet quite ready to open his eyes, he was able to process the gradual influx of recent memories intruding on his waking thoughts. Everything was clear right up until the point where the world had started to shake apart.

 _"…ouch, buggering_ fuck _, your mother was a…"_

Jim shifted slightly, and every muscle in his body screamed at him. He stopped abruptly, and settled on a humbler goal. He opened his eyes.

"…and what's more, that bloody hobgoblin of yours has been a regular hell to work with. I mean sure, he's no picnic on a normal basis – stiffer than a whore's drink, that one – but I'm talking whole new levels of insufferable, Jim. If for no other reason, you can wake up to give me a reprieve from _that_. In all honesty, though, I can't blame the man…Vulcan, whatever. He's worried half out of his head, no matter what he'd have the rest of us believe. 'Vulcan's don't worry' my _ass._ He needs you, Jim. We all do, though, so any time you finish with this little snooze of yours –"

The cave was entirely in darkness. Jim twisted his body around in an effort to locate the communicator McCoy's voice was no doubt emanating from. His movement must have made a noise, because the Doctor cut himself off abruptly.

"Jim, goddammit, you had better not be seizing again."

Jim huffed a pained laugh. "G'morning to you too, Bones."

There was the very distinct sound of McCoy _not_ having a complete breakdown on the other end of the line, followed by a choked, "Dammit, kid, you'll be the death of me yet, you know that?"

"Not for a while yet, I hope, Bones."

Jim rolled himself over onto his hands and knees, and groaned as his joints popped with a series of loud cracks.

"What the hell are you doing down there? Lie still, you idiot, you just woke up."

Jim would have rolled his eyes, but in all honesty he felt utterly exhausted – his body was as aching and drained as if he had spent the last three days stuck in a continuous workout. He crawled the few feet to where McCoy's voice was coming from, collapsing in a pathetic heap when his hand finally brushed against the device.

"Jesus, Bones, it must have been quite a bender I missed."

McCoy's voice gentled immediately, filling with soft concern. "Yeah, kid, sounded like a rough one. How are you feeling?"

Jim paused for a moment, taking stock, then said, "You know that time we drank that blue shit on Gregoria V?"

"Sure," said McCoy, sounding anything but.

"Remember the next day?"

Jim could practically feel McCoy's shudder down the line. The Doctor groaned.

"Tough break, Jim."

"Yeah," was the blonde man's heartfelt response.

"And you're not experiencing any confusion? What about name? Rank? Place of birth?"

"James Tiberius Kirk, Captain aboard the Federation flagship U.S.S. Enterprise, serial number SC937-0176CEC, Born in Medical Shuttle 37, Fucksville, space." Jim took a breath. "That enough for you, Bones?"

"Anything else? Nausea, head pain, broken bones?"

"A little, no, and no. Feels like I've gone nine consecutive rounds with a pissed Vulcan, but besides aches and bruises, I'm more or less intact."

"I'm glad, Jim." McCoy sounded sombre again. "There was a point there…you seized three times, kid. Grand mals, from what I could tell. And I…Jesus, Jim, I couldn't do jack shit, I could just _listen_ and-"

"S'okay, Bones," soothed Jim quickly as the Doctor's breaths began to come too fast. "I'm alright. No shakes, no head pain, just sore and tired." He yawned widely. "Really tired. I just woke up, though?"

McCoy was back to his professional tones, albeit with a little more gentleness than he usually displayed, when he said, "That's normal, Jim. You should probably go back to sleep for a few hours, actually, now that I know you're not about to choke on your own vomit or something. Got another six hours or so before daylight anyway."

Jim's eyes were already drooping, and he figured he was going to end up following McCoy's suggestion whether he wanted to or not. He could hold out for a moment or two, though.

"Six hours?" he queried between yawns. "How long was I out anyway?"

"'Bout nineteen hours or so," said McCoy heavily. "Fifty-two hour days down there, though, so as I said, you may as well get some shuteye."

"J'st might take you up on tha', Bonesy," mumbled Jim, too exhausted to enjoy McCoy's squawk of indignation at the butchered nickname. He made to curl on his side with his back to the wall, and grimaced.

"Any idea why my pants smell like piss, Bones?"

"That's normal too, kid. Common effect of seizures. Just shuck 'em and we can worry about them in the morning. Warm enough down there, anyway."

"Yeah," sighed Jim, not finding in him to argue. He shucked the pants and shorts, kicking them half-heartedly towards the entrance of the cave, and curled up with the communicator cradled against his chest.

"Nigh', Bones," he mumbled.

"G'night, kid," he heard, seconds before be dropped into a dreamless sleep.

XXX

When Jim woke for the second time, it was with his usual alacrity. The interior of the cave was dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the bushes covering the entrance, and the air was distinctly warm. There was also a strange foreign melody curling up from the communicator against his chest. It took a moment for him to place the soft tangle of words as Vulcan.

"Spock?" he queried.

The melody halted abruptly.

"Jim?" came Spock's voice, sounding both cautious and relieved.

"Got it in one, Spock," yawned Jim, shuffling himself upright so that his back rested against the wall. A few quick stretches told him all he needed to know – the aches in his muscles had already receded significantly, and all in all he felt fresher and healthier than he had since they had beamed down to the planet surface.

"Doctor McCoy informed me that you woke some 7.23 hours ago, Captain. Do you feel better now that you have had additional rest?"

Jim levered himself to his feet, testing his slightly wobbly legs and beginning the first of a few warm-up shuffles around the cave. "Sure do, Spock," he responded cheerfully. "Guess we get a bit of a reprieve, huh?"

"So it would seem, Captain." There was a hesitation from the other end of the line, before Spock continued, sounding significantly less sure of himself than usual.

"I am…most gratified that you are feeling better, Ca-…Jim. To have you suffer, and it be in the absence of mitigating influences, was...unpleasant."

Jim halted his shaky circuits of the cave, absurdly touched by the Spock equivalent of heartfelt declaration.

"Thanks, Spock," he murmured warmly. "I'm sorry you and Bones had to go through that. I know it…this whole situation…is hard on you guys."

Jim cleared his throat then, and attempted to break the somewhat serious mood with a huffed laugh. "Where is Bones, anyway? I would have thought he'd be scolding me by now."

"Nurse Chapel claims responsibility for his absence, Sir." And Jim was damned if he couldn't just see the amused glint that would fill Spock's eyes when his voice took that tone. "I believe the administration of a sedative was involved."

Jim barked a delighted laugh. "Using Bone's own methods against him! God, he's going to be so pissed when he wakes up." Jim cocked his head. "Isn't Nurse Chapel about due a raise?"

"I will put the issue aside as one to address when you return, Captain," responded Spock evenly.

"You do that, Spock," hummed Jim, bouncing on his heels experimentally in an effort to check his balance. "How're things with the samples coming?"

At this question, Spock's voice returned to its normal clipped efficiency, and Jim tried not to be too disappointed by an end to the teasing banter.

"Primary samples have been collected, Captain, and we are making progress in isolating the contagion within the infected blood. Doctor McCoy and I are leading the medical and science teams in developing and refining a possible vaccine against the virus, and from there a cure for the disease."

"That's great, Spock. You getting enough rest during all that, or do I need to sic Nurse Chapel on you as well?"

"Vulcans do not require as much sleep as human's do, Captain," stated Spock, somewhat haughtily.

"That may be so, Spock, but they do still need some rest. Just…take care of yourself as well, alright?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good." Jim sighed and eyed the bush-covered cave entrance before him. "Alright, Spock, same drill as yesterday? I'll check in every hour. Sooner if any new symptoms start cropping up."

Spock seemed reluctant to end the connection. "You are sure that your condition is stable, Captain? I can have Doctor McCoy alerted if you are in need?"

"Nah, let Bones have his beauty sleep, Spock. God knows he needs it. 'Sides, I really am feeling fine – better than fine really. Though some foraging might be in order."

"To leave the cave is ill-advised, Captain," fretted Spock helplessly. "You cannot guarantee you would be in a secure position should you regress."

"Spock," said Jim gently, "I won't stray far from the cave. At the slightest hint of anything being wrong, I will com the Enterprise and return here. But I need food, Spock, and water. The disease is of little consequence if I forgo those."

Spock agreed with obvious reluctance, and after extracting a promise that Jim would keep to his schedule of check-ins and assuring the blonde-haired man that Scotty was making progress with locating his position, he signed off.

Jim sat thoughtfully for a few minutes after ending his communication with Spock, considering his options. His eyes fell upon the pants and shorts he had discarded a while before, and he had a brief moment of irrational mortification at the fact that he had conducted an entire conversation with his First Officer sans underwear. Then he snorted, and muttered, "So unprofessional," beneath his breath.

He dragged the biosuit – thankfully still clean, as he had removed it before having his fit the night before - from where it was lying at the back of the cave. It took several attempts, as the plastic constituting the mask of the biosuit was intended to withstand considerable force, but he was eventually able to shatter the mask using one of the heftier stones he had collected the evening before. He then used the existing tears in the arm of the biosuit to strip a few lengths of cloth from it.

Carefully extracting the largest shard from amid the shattered plastic – the last thing he needed was yet another cut to worry about – he proceeded to use the strips of tough cloth torn from the biosuit to strap the shard to a supple, yet strong branch he selected from the brush across the entrance. The end result was a rough yet serviceable spear about the length of his forearm. He hoped that the spear would be useful for foraging rather than combat, but figured it was a good addition to his possessions either way.

After a moment's reflection, he used is new spear to cut the arms and hood away from the biosuit completely, and pulled the resulting garment on over his command gold shirt. He tucked the phaser and communicators in the belt of the suit, hefted his makeshift spear, scooped up his pants and shorts, and cleared the brush away from the entrance of the cave in several deft movements.

Once he stepped outside, it took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the light of the two suns. He blinked rapidly to dispel the dark spots from his vision, and began making his way down the slope gingerly.

He knew from his exploration of the mountainside the day before that there was a small pool – fed by a small waterfall flowing down off the mountain – several hundred metres from the entrance of his valley. It seemed an ideal destination, as it promised a defensible position, a place to wash and a starting point in his search for food.

By the time Jim arrived at the pool, the first sun was almost a quarter of the way across the sky, and the second hung just above the horizon opposite the mountains. Along the way, Jim had collected a handful of bluish berries from the bushes that seemed to cling to the base of the mountain just above the scree. A small part of him cringed guiltily at the thought of the conniption Bones would have if he knew that Jim was exposing his allergy-sensitive system to alien flora, but that part was largely overruled by the rational understanding of his need for sustenance.

Jim laid all but one of the berries out on a flat rock. That one he pressed to his inner wrist until the sensitive skin was thinly coated in a layer of blue-black, fragrant juice. When, after fifteen minutes, his skin had not reacted to the substance in any way, he proceeded to coat his outer lip with the juice, but was careful not to ingest any yet.

While he waited the requisite few minutes to see if his skin would react, he stripped off the biosuit and Starfleet shirt, and found a small stream running away from the pool in which he could weigh both those items and his dirtied pants down with rocks. He left the clothing there to soak, and wandered back to the pool completely in the buff. The vulnerability of his situation was not lost on him, so he made sure to keep both the phaser and his spear close at hand at all times.

The next phase of his food testing allowed him to place one of the crushed berries on his tongue. His hunger made the temptation to swallow almost unbearable, but he dutifully held the berry in place for fifteen minutes without swallowing. To distract himself from its presence on his tongue, he focused on finding something that could serve as a prospective water container.

Another fifteen minutes of holding the chewed pulp of the berry against his inner cheek, and he was finally able to swallow. He grimaced when he realised that he was now supposed to spend the next eight hours ensuring there was no reaction before swallowing anything else. He tentatively reduced that time to four hours knowing that if his sensitive system had not reacted to the berries by then, it was unlikely to do so.

Jim heaved a gusty sigh, set aside thoughts of his grumbling stomach, and waded his way into the pool for what he considered to be a well-earned wash. The water was ice cold and beautifully clear, having travelled straight from the pristine peaks of the mountain. Jim revelled in its cool bite as he dunked himself unceremoniously beneath the surface. He gently eased the bandages off his injured arm and tossed them ashore, allowing the cool current to soothe the burn beneath the reddened skin.

After a brief moment of indecision during which he debated the wisdom of leaving his things unattended on the shore, Jim struck out for the small waterfall on the far side of the pool and allowed himself a moment to revel in the beat of icy water cascading over his shoulders and down his back. For a few moments, he could almost recapture the sense of 'Paradiso' that the settlers had once entertained.

When he returned to the shallows, he scooped up palmfuls of coarse sand and proceeded to rub down the skin of his legs and torso thoroughly. The rough technique left his skin feeling slightly raw, but incredibly clean. He found himself humming one of Scotty's jaunty Scottish ditties beneath his breath as he rinsed, mumbling made-up word wherever he couldn't quite remember the original lyrics.

Jim was not one to let his guard down in any situation – something that McCoy had been known to lament on more than one occasion – and so even over the dull roar of the waterfall and the lazy splash of his own movements, the faint rustle from just beyond the edge of the thick greenery surrounding the pool immediately captured his attention. Within seconds, he was on his feet in the shallows, clear droplets suspended like scattered diamonds on his sunlit torso.

The rustle came again, and he cursed his own foolishness at allowing himself to drift several feet from where his phaser and spear rested on the shore. He was just debating the wisdom of making a wild leap for them when a figure stumbled from the bushes and came to an abrupt halt on the edge of the pool.

Jim blinked.

Huh.


	6. Children of Storms

In all the possibilities he had entertained of what he could expect to see emerge from the trees, this had not even made the list.

The girl could not be more than six years old. She was wearing a dirty dress that had almost certainly been bright purple at some point in its life. Her black hair was loose and slightly matted around a flushed, rounded and somewhat grubby face. Two bright green eyes dominated her other features, staring at Jim with an expression of stunned bewilderment that he was sure matched his own.

While Jim was still trying to catch up to this strange turn of events – and wrangle his initial instinct of lunging for his spear into something more appropriate for facing down an unarmed six-year-old – the girl's eyes flicked from his face, downwards, to his face again, and finally settled on a spot just below his midriff. Belatedly, Jim realised that he was standing in knee-high water and that he was still entirely naked.

The little girl's cheeks reddened even as he watched, and Jim wondered with a kind of distant horror if she was going to scream. In a somewhat rare turn of events, he was completely at a loss as to how to handle the situation. He had the distinct impression that however he was currently managing it was wrong.

Just as he was weighing up the wisdom of springing for his clothes or his weapons first, the little girl's lips parted, and instead of the bloodcurdling scream Jim was anticipating, peals of high-pitched, trilling laughter spilled forth from her tiny frame. Jim watched, stunned, as she bent over at the waist, still giggling madly, and pointed at his naked frame as if it were the very picture of amusement.

Jim considered himself to be a rather shameless person when it came to nudity. Bodies were bodies, and he was both fortunate and diligent enough to have a good one. More than one prank intended to humiliate him had fallen flat when he had showed no qualms about striding through gym halls, school grounds and on one memorable occasion, the Enterprise bridge, with everything on display.

So Jim was surprised and mildly horrified to find a blush creeping determinedly up the side of his neck as the tiny girl continued to point and laugh hysterically at a fairly personal part of his anatomy. It was rather jarring for his ego.

"Yes, yes, alright, it's very funny," he huffed as he shuffled awkwardly towards the stream in which his clothes lay, simultaneously attempting to cover his groin with his hands.

"Avert your eyes, child. No-one likes a peeping Tom."

The kid collapsed into a fresh fit of giggles as Jim made a frantic grab for his undershorts and proceeded to hop absurdly on one foot in an effort to pull them on and keep one hand covering his bits at the same time.

He had just settled them about his waist with a sigh of relief when the bushes parted once again and an older girl – perhaps fourteen or so – hurried through with eyes for the younger girl alone.

"Ro! What did I tell you about running ahead? And for the last time, we are meant to keep our voices down."

The younger girl – Ro, Jim supposed – muffled her giggles immediately, but Jim could still see her laughter in the creases at the corners of her eyes.

"Sorry, Mimi," she spoke in a dramatic whisper, before immediately reverting to her normal tones. "But there's a funny man in th'pool, an' Mimi, he wasn' wearing any _clothes_."

She pressed clumsy fingers to her mouth to head off a fresh wave of giggles, and Jim winced. There were definitely better ways of being introduced.

The girl known as Mimi looked up sharply, and her eyes settled immediately on Jim. He raised his hands, palms out, in the universal sign of non-aggression, but she didn't seem much appeased. Rather, her hands immediately fell on Ro's shoulders, tugging the small girl against her protectively. Her eyes held a look that Jim knew well, having had it once himself, and it was a look that clearly stated adults could not be trusted.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "You're not from the base."

"No," responded Jim placatingly, though it had not been a question. "I'm Captain Jim Kirk of the U.S.S. Enterprise. I and a few of my crew visited the base a few days back."

A flicker of recognition showed in Mimi's eyes, but she did not relax her defensive posture. Jim admired her for it.

He moved slowly, allowing Mimi plenty of time to see his intentions, and gestured between her and Ro.

"Your parents were scientists on the base? You live there?"

Mimi twitched her head, as if throwing off an irritating insect, but she answered. "We did. But then all the adults went crazy, so now we don't anymore."

 _That_ caught Jim's attention. "The adults went crazy?" he clarified. "So…the children didn't get sick, then? The other children, I mean."

Mimi hesitated, clearly a war with herself over how much she should tell him, and then shook her head sharply.

And suddenly Jim found himself with a whole new set of worries on his shoulders.

In the short silence that followed, Ro shifted restlessly.

"Mimi, m'hungry," she whined irritably, but the older girl shushed, eyes fixed on Jim.

"Mimi," he started, and then paused, trying to decide how best to go about getting answers without scaring the girl off.

"Miram," she snapped. "My name's Miram."

"Miram," he corrected with a nod. "My ship, and all my crew, they know about what's happening down here, with all the adults getting sick. And they're up there right now, working on something that can make all those people who are sick better."

"Like you?" interrupted Miram harshly, and Jim saw her eyes resting on the gashes in his arm. _Smart girl_ , he thought, impressed.

"Yes," he replied honestly. "Like me. But they need as much information as they can get, if they're going to develop a cure as quickly as possible, and I've got a way of sending them information from down here. If you would let me ask you a couple of questions, Miram, about what you know of the disease, it could really help them. It could really help everyone."

He could see her wavering. He knew all too well what it was like, longing to place the burden of responsibility on the shoulders of someone older, and being terribly afraid that in doing so you are letting down the one's you protect.

So he pulled out his trump card.

"The people on my ship are planning on sending me supplies, Miram. It's just some stuff I need, but now that I know about you, maybe I can ask them to send down extra things for you and Ro…and maybe the other children too?"

Miram's eyes flashed, and Jim knew he had guessed correctly. He didn't know how many children she was protecting, but it was certainly more than just her and Ro.

"What do you need, Miram?" he asked. "We can get you clothes, tools. Food?"

Jim felt slightly guilty about stretching the truth. The Enterprise would only be able to send down supplies once they had determined his location, and as yet, they hadn't managed that. But he was confident in the combined abilities of Spock and Scotty to overcome that particular obstacle, and he knew he would not allow Miram to continue without proper supplies. Hell, he would walk to the other side of the jungle himself if that's what it took to find a spot where a drop could be made.

Jim saw the exact moment when the bid worked. The tension around Miram's eyes eased minutely, and her shoulders drooped slightly as if a crushing weight had just been lifted from them. There was still suspicion in her gaze as it rested on Jim, but beneath it he could see the tell-tale signs of relief.

"Ro," said Miram firmly, "why don't you go collect some berries from the patch on the other side of the pool?" Jim noted she gestured to the blue berries he had been testing earlier, and resisted the urge to huff in annoyance.

Ro glared at the older girl suspiciously, as if sensing that she was being sent away for some reason, but the temptation of the berries clearly won out, and she nodded.

She paused as she passed Jim, though, and eyed him thoughtfully.

"I'm Ro," she told him decisively. "I'm a princess."

Jim widened his eyes, and dropped instantly to his knees in an elegant kowtow. As he was still ankle-deep in the pool, this meant that his movement sent up a considerable splash, and dunked his face underwater. Ro shrieked with delighted laughter at his antics, and he fixed her with his most charming grin as he raised his head.

"Forgive me, your highness, for not greeting you properly before. Could you ever manage to look past such a dishonour?"

"S'okay," declared Ro magnanimously. "Lotsa people don' see I'm a princess at firs'."

"You are too kind, beautiful maiden, too good. Without a doubt, you are the best of all princesses. All you need is a crown."

Ro turned to Miram, immediately overtaken by wholehearted despair in the way only a child can be. "Mimi! I don't have a crown!"

"Never fear, fair princess!" declared Jim, striking a heroic pose that had even Miram's tight lips twitching into a smile. "I shall find you a crown, so that all may see what a wise and wonderful princess you are. This I swear by my sword."

"You don' have a sword," pointed out Ro, with infallible six-year-old logic.

"Ah. Yes. Well, in that case, I swear by my-"

"By your hair!"

"My hair," echoed Jim, bemused.

"Y's! An' if you fail, then you have to cut it all off."

Jim blanched. "You are a fearsome princess indeed," he stated, somewhere between worried and amused. "So be it! A crown you shall have, or I shall cut off all my hair."

Ro stared at him with wide eyes, and giggled. "I like you, naked man," she said decidedly, before disappearing in search of berries.

Jim turned to see Miram staring at him speculatively.

"Thanks," she said after a slightly awkward pause. "For humouring her."

Jim smiled somewhat wistfully, and glanced at where Ro was counting berries on the shore, face twisted up in fierce concentration. "She reminds me of my goddaughter back home. Always laughing that one. And sharp as a tack too. Puts me to shame."

Jim felt a slight pang in his chest when he thought of McCoy's beautiful daughter, Joanna, who he had not seen in person for so long.

Shaking off his momentary melancholy, he turned to Miram, who was watching him intently.

"What would you like to know?" she asked.

Jim took a moment to pull on the rest of his clothes before he began.

"How many children are there, besides you and Ro?"

"Five," replied Miram reluctantly. "Ro's the youngest. I'm the oldest, though there's another who's almost as old as me. He's looking after the others now."

"Are you all the children who were on the base? Were there any others?"

Ro's face crumpled slightly, and her fingers twisted into the hem of her shirt. "There were two others," she muttered hoarsely.

Jim looked at the tightness in her eyes, and nodded sadly. He did not ask.

"How did you all make it off the base?"

"There was a man who helped us." Her eyes flicked briefly to the insignia on Jim's shirt. "An Enterprise man. He wasn't sick at first, saw what was happening. He gave us some food and told us to run. I knew there were places to hide in the mountains, from before, so I brought everyone here."

"You did a really good job, Miram," praised Jim gently. "It was a wise choice to hide here where it's safer."

Miram flushed slightly and ducked her head, shaking it from side to side. Jim wondered why she was so unnerved by the praise.

"Did all the adults get sick? None of them were immune?"

Miram's nose scrunched, as if she had smelt something bad. "There was one man," she said. "He didn't get sick, I don't know why, but he met up with us while we were heading for the mountains. We thought he could help us, since he was a grown-up an' all, but…"

Miram swallowed, and scowled at the ground.

"What happened, Miram?" coaxed Jim gently.

"He stole our things," huffed Miram after a moment. "All our food and supplies. He waited 'til we were asleep and he took them."

Jim frowned, and swallowed down his anger. No wonder Miram looked at him with such suspicion. She had already put her trust in the wrong adult once. Her reluctance to accept his praise now made far more sense.

"You know that that's no your fault, right, Miram?"

Miram's head jerked up in surprise, and she stared at him with wide eyes.

He continued, "He was an adult, and you should be able to trust them. You're _supposed_ to trust them. It's not your fault that he failed you."

Miram continued to watch him with wide eyes until he began to feel slightly uncomfortable, so he moved on.

"What can you tell me about the disease, Miram? Do you know what happens to people who get infected? How long it takes for them to become like…like the people back at the base now?"

Her eyes travelled quickly to his arm, and then slowly back up to his face. The expression in her eyes was almost pitying.

"Have you had the shakes yet?" she asked suddenly.

"The shakes…" echoed Jim blankly.

"Yes. Your body goes all shaky and uncontrolled. You jerk around for a bit, kinda like a puppet, and then you fall asleep. The shakes."

Jim nodded slowly. "They're called seizures," he informed her. "And yes, I have had them."

"When?" she demanded, sounding suddenly tense.

"Last night," he said, and she relaxed.

"That's alright, then," she said. "You've got some time."

"Time before what?" asked Jim, unsure if he wanted to know, but knowing that he needed to.

"Before you start getting all angry and stuff. Most of the others, they were fine for about a day or two after the sha-…the seizures before they started getting angry." She cocked her head at him.

Jim swallowed. "Is that when…when they started attacking each other? When the, um, biting began?"

"No. Well sorta. Not the biting thing. People just got really angry, you know, shouting at each other and hitting and stuff. There was no killing, I don't think. Not until…later." She looked miserable.

Jim wished he did not have to push her, but the answers she was giving were far too important for him to abandon his questioning now. "I'm sorry that I have to ask you to talk about these things, Miram. I know you would prefer not to think about it. But what you're telling me is really helpful. You're doing an incredible job."

She hung her head for a moment, taking deep, shuddering breaths. When she looked up again, it was with a determined light in her eye.

"What else do you need to know?"

"So, first it was seizures, and then people got angry. What happened after that?"

Miram's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure what you'd call it. People started to get really weird. Like, scared weird. All the adults were whispering, or hiding, and no-one wanted to be around anyone else too much. My mom was hiding under my bed, and she kept saying everyone was dangerous, everyone was trying to hurt us. Like, even my dad. She said he was going to come back and get her."

"And was he?" queried Jim.

Miram fixed him with a hollow stare. "My dad was one of the first to get sick," she stated. "He'd been dead two days by that time."

Jim's heart ached for her in that moment, and he reached out a hand to squeeze hers gently.

"We're gonna fix this, Miram," he promised. "My crew is the best out there, honestly, and if your mom is still there, they'll help her."

Miram nodded, swallowing convulsively.

Clearing her throat, she said, "I'm not really sure what happened after that. There were people…people shouting at things that weren't there. And others were singing and laughing, but it didn't really seem like they were happy. More…crazy. The Enterprise guy, the one that got us out, he said something about hallucinations?" Miram shuddered. "It wasn't long after that that people started…you know…biting. The whole thing took about three or four days from after the seizures."

Both Miram and Jim sat in complete silence for a moment, reflecting. Jim found himself hoping that McCoy and Spock pulled together a cure sooner rather than later.

Ro returned to Miram's side not long after that, mouth and fingers stained purple from the berries and eyelashes sparkling with water droplets. She was demanding a post-lunch nap, and Jim realised with a jolt that he was probably overdue with his check-in.

Ro was utterly captivated by the idea of the communicator once he had retrieved it, and insisted on clinging to his arm as he hailed the Enterprise.

This time around, it was neither Spock nor Bones who responded to his hail, but Uhura, sounding refreshingly pleased to hear from him.

"You're late, Kirk," she scolded after her standard response.

"The lovely Miss Uhura!" crowed Jim, making Ro bury her face in his arm to muffle a few giggles. "Too long has it been since I was lulled by your dulcet tones."

" _Ha'DIbaH_ ," she replied curtly.

"Why, Miss Uhura, how could you say such a thing?" gasped Jim. "She says I'm the most handsome Captain in all the land," he whispered as an aside to the little girl hanging off his arm, covering the com deftly with one hand.

"She does no-ot!" shrieked Ro laughingly, her gap-toothed smile almost too large for her face.

"No?" said Jim, pulling a tragic face. "Well, she can't have very good taste then."

Removing his hand from the com, he continued, "Oh Most Illustrious Uhura, ruler of the communications console, I must ask that you temper your tongue. There is royalty present, you see."

"Royalty, Captain?" queried Uhura, clearly torn between annoyance and amusement.

Jim winked at Ro, and held the com out to her. "If you would, My Lady." He executed an elegant bow.

Ro giggled. "'lo, Miss U'ra. Mister Jim says your inna big boat inna sky."

"Ship, Ro," corrected Miram gently, but she was smiling too.

To Uhura's everlasting credit, she did not miss a beat. "Greetings, My Lady. Captain Kirk! How dare you not tell me straight away that there was royalty present! May I have your name, if you please, _nzuri moja_?"

"I'm Princess Ro," declared the little girl haughtily, and then immediately ruined the effect by inquiring curiously, "What's a nz'i moja?

" _Nzuri moja_ ," lilted Uhura. "It means 'Beautiful one' in Swahili, because I can tell how beautiful you are from all the way up here in the sky."

This caused Ro to blush and spin in unrestrained delight, and Jim was reminded of just why he loved his crew so fucking much.

"You sound really pretty, too," responded Ro shyly, once her excitement had died down.

"That she is, Princess Ro," declared Jim. "Almost as pretty as me. Now, I am certain someone said something about being overdue their princess-ly nap, yes?"

Ro grew quite put out at this, but Uhura soothed her by promising they would talk again later.

Miram seemed extremely reluctant to leave Jim's side – as if anxious that he and all his promises would go up in smoke if she took her eyes off of him for longer than a moment – but she eventually bowed to the need to take food back to the other children, and return Ro for her nap. They agreed to meet up by the pool again in several hours.

Just before she left, Miram gave him a warning.

"That man, the one who took our things? He's still around. We've seen him sometimes while out looking for food and stuff. It's why I get mad at Ro for being so loud and all. He's not a nice man, Mister Kirk. I don't think he needs to be sick to be dangerous."

"Call me Jim, Miram," he assured her. "And thank you for the warning. I'll keep an eye out for him. You just worry about yourselves, alright?

Jim's last impression of her was of her piercing, suspicious eyes, glancing back over her shoulder as she led Ro away from the pool. He would have liked to accompany them back to wherever they were based, and made sure they were safe, but in his condition he thought it best that he not know too much about where they were hiding. Besides, Miram would never allow it.

He sighed, and scrubbed his hands over his tense features. If there was one thing he hated more than a royal fuck-up on a planet, it was a royal fuck-up that implicated children. He despised the ways in which it forced them to scramble for independence, and age beyond their years, only to look out with eyes that knew far too much on the adults who had failed them.

This wasn't Jim's failure, but it sure as hell felt like it.

"Captain?" queried Uhura, with the beginnings of concern in her voice.

"Lieutenant," he responded wearily. "Thank you for your co-operation. They don't trust easy, those two. Or not the older one, at least."

"Of course, Captain." Uhura's voice was laden with tones Jim had always had some trouble deciphering, even when they were face to face. "Those children, they are from the research base?"

"Yes," replied Jim heavily, and Uhura's breath hitched. "This whole thing is a right mess. And I can't even watch out for them properly, not if I'm-"

He cut himself off abruptly and raked his hands through his hair.

"Apologies, Lieutenant, if you could just…could you patch me through to Spock please?"

"Of course, Sir."

Uhura hesitated, dropping her professional veneer for a moment. "You're doing okay down there, right, Kirk?"

Jim quirked a grin, even though he knew she could not see it. Hopefully something of it would come through in his voice. "'Course, _aina moja_. I'm doing just fine."

Uhura hummed skeptically. "Keep it that way," she ordered, and patched him though to Spock.


	7. Solace of Shared Cups

_Hi all. Just a note for anyone following the fic – I don't have a beta checker or anything like that, so there may be typos. I trust you will find it in your hearts to forgive me for the. Otherwise, hope you're enjoying the story. I'm heading into uni exams at the moment, so updates will probably slow for a while. Thanks! TBarchett97_

Spock had not slept in 48.26 hours.

By Vulcan standards, this was no remarkable feat. After all, Vulcan constitutions were equipped to handle far greater strain than their human counterparts. Spock could reasonably continue operating at an efficient level for a further 10.36 days before his body would be forced to rest.

However, Jim had been off-ship – diseased and alone – for 37.54 hours of the 48.26 that Spock had been awake, and that had made the last two days pass far slower than Spock knew was logically consistent.

Spock was not accustomed to feelings of frustration in his research lab. On the bridge, around his incomprehensible Captain, or on missions, surrounded by irrational beings and events, yes – he was no stranger to the emotion that tensed his shoulders and riled his blood. But never in his lab. Science could not be rushed, readings and calculations were inevitable in their progression, and thus frustration as a reaction that was illogical and disregarded.

In this instance, however, Spock found himself staring at the lab equipment as if he could speed their processes through his determination alone. Even knowing he had run all the numbers there were to be had at this stage of the process – several times - he was tempted to go through them again and again in an unreasonable attempt to augment proceedings.

On the other side of the lab, McCoy was elbow-deep in tissue samples through the thick gloves set into the side of the air-tight containers intended for just this purpose. The Doctor's eyes were darkly shadowed, and his face pale, but after waking in a righteous snit from Chapel's unsolicited sedation several hours earlier, it had been impossible to make him take a break.

Spock stared down at the numbers again, troubled by his own inadequacy. They were making progress, but it was achingly slow. What they really needed was-

"Kirk to Commander Spock."

Spock saw McCoy's head jerk upwards, features fraught with anxiety, as the Vulcan turned to the communicator. His own thoughts stuttered under the weight of his calm façade – why was Jim contacting him? Had the disease progressed? Were there further symptoms? Whatever it was, it was too soon, and they just weren't ready…

"Received, Captain," he responded, voice perfectly even. "Are you experiencing problems?"

"No, Spock, still good. I've got some good news, actually. Of a sort."

Spock relaxed minutely. Across the lab, he saw McCoy drop his head with a dull _thunk_ against the edge of the container.

"Captain?" He waited expectantly.

"Well, you'll never believe, Spock, I met this princess…"

Spock listened avidly as Jim described his encounter with Miram and Ro. He was intrigued by Jim's claim that the two children exhibited no signs of the illness that had decimated the Paradiso research base, and that this was apparently true of the five others that Jim had not met as well. Jim expressed frustration and concern at having seven young children trapped alone on a hostile planet, and Spock understood his distress completely, although he found it difficult to rouse significant alarm when do so much of his fear was already intertwined with _Jim_ being stranded on that same planet.

McCoy joined Spock as Jim began to describe Miram's account of the disease's stages, and they both listened in grim trepidation to the ominous news.

"So you're in the clear for the next day or so?" checked McCoy once Jim had run through everything he had heard. "And then it's…"

"Aggression, yeah, s'far as I can tell. She said everyone started getting 'angry', but like shouting-and-hitting angry, not 'eat-thy-neighbour' angry."

Jim sounded exhausted, and Spock found himself wondering whether the bruises under his eyes were as dark as McCoy's, and if he was imbibing enough fluids, and when the last time he ate was. There were just too many variables that Spock was unable to establish across the distance, and it was like an itch between his mental shields.

McCoy scowled slightly at Jim's description. "Nice, Jim," he muttered.

"What?" questioned Jim with mock innocence. "You never heard that commandment? It's right next to the one that says 'Suck thy-'"

"And then it's paranoia?" interrupted McCoy hastily. "Whispering, irrationality, hiding under beds – sounds like paranoia to me."

"Yup," affirmed Jim, popping the 'P' and not sounding the least put out by McCoy's interruption. "And from there it's straight into the whole Looney Tunes acid trip, with a side of 'I-see-dead-people'."

Spock frowned. "I am unsure of your meaning, Captain."

McCoy ignored him. "Hallucinations," he muttered. "Christ, Jim, that's…that's not good."

Jim's tones of forced joviality came jangling through the com. "Is that your personal opinion, Bones, or it 'not good' some new medical terminology I'm not familiar with?"

Bones growled. "Don't get snarky with me, you bloody infant. It's medical terminology if I say it is."

"I…sorry, Bones," said Jim, immediately contrite. "I just…I'm a bit on edge right now, what with...everything. I hate that these kids are down here, you know? Bad enough that a bunch of unassuming scientists have to live with the fact that they made snacks of some of their colleagues, but to know those kids had to watch it?"

Jim sounded absolutely distraught.

"And now they're hiding up here in the mountains, hungry and scared, and rather than being able to do something about it I've got to worry about whether _I'm_ gonna be the biggest threat to them in the next few days. I want to help them and I'm just…useless."

There was a harsh _thwump_ from the other end of the communicator, and Spock suspected Jim had just punched something in his frustration.

He was speaking before he was aware he had opened his mouth.

"You have already helped them, Captain. You yourself stated that they were isolated and possessed of no cause to trust adults. That you were able to overcome their reticence when they have been so recently betrayed is of remarkable consequence. It is by your efforts that a connection between them and the Enterprise has been established. They will have access to supplies and their own communicator within the next few hours." Spock paused to consider. "Of equal importance is that you provided Miram with the reassurance she required and gave them the hope they had previously been lacking."

There was a slightly choked noise from the other end of the line, before Jim cleared his throat and said roughly, "Thanks, Spock, that's…I'm glad you think that." He still sounded fairly miserable, though.

McCoy was staring at Spock like he had just stood up and declared he was defecting for a life in the Russian Ballet. The fingers of his right hand twitched, as if he were itching to grab a tricorder and give the Vulcan a full scan.

"Yeah, Spock, that was downright inspiring," he said suspiciously, before turning abruptly and beginning to prowl throughout the lab, checking the ceiling and under benches.

"Doctor McCoy, may I ask what you are searching for?"

McCoy flapped a dismissive hand. "Just the pigs with wings, Spock, I _know_ they must be here somewhere…"

Jim snorted softly, and Spock made a decision.

"Are you certain you are quite well, Doctor? Perhaps you are overdue on one of your infamous health examinations. I assure you that the existence of winged _sus scrofa_ within the science laboratory is neither relevant, nor logical."

McCoy turned red. "Goddammit, man, you cannot _possibly_ have spent the last _decade_ in largely human company and still not have a firm grasp on the _bloody English idiom._ You dated a xenolinguist, for God's sake."

Spock could hear Jim chuckling helplessly on the other end of the line, and his entire being felt inexplicably lighter.

"The incomprehensibility of your singularly illogical use of the English language, though a clear indication of your own proclivity towards irrational thought, is in no way indicative of my inability to engage with the human vernacular. I assure you, I am quite fluent."

McCoy spluttered. "I…you…Listen, you…self-righteous, green-blooded…pointy-eared sumna bi-"

"Your fixation on my biology as a source of offense is more suggestive of your flaws than mine, Doctor."

"Oh, I'll show you a fixation on biology, you bloody computer," growled McCoy. "I'm gonna r-"

But McCoy cut off abruptly, because Spock wasn't even looking at him. Instead, he was staring fixedly at the communicator through which Jim's unbridled peals of laughter could be heard. And his expression…his expression that was every bit as blank as usual, only…not. The fascination in his gaze looked almost…warm. And McCoy could have sworn that his mouth was turned up just slightly at the corners.

McCoy's mouth closed, then opened, then closed again very slowly, and his eyes took on a distinctly glazed look, of the sort worn by someone just realising that they've been sitting on the last puzzle piece the entire time. He closed his eyes and groaned very softly.

Spock did not notice. He was experiencing a sensation he usually associated with the solving of a particularly challenging scientific anomaly, or the completion of an incredibly convoluted code. It was that warm flush that tended to rise through his chest at the conviction of having accomplished something good.

He was brought out of his reverie by McCoy barking gruffly, "Jim! You had better be laughing in support."

"'Course, Bones," reassured Jim, words almost lost amid his last fits of chuckles. "I'm a big fan of your 'proclivity towards irrational thought'."

McCoy snorted. "Yeah, laugh it up, you little shit. Just remember who'll be doing your medical examination when you finally come back to work."

"Ooh, low blow, Bones," grumbled Jim, but he sounded lighter than he had since the mission had gone sideways, and McCoy's eyes when they rested on Spock remained heavy with speculation.

"Well, I've promised a girl and her princess that they can expect manna from the great boat in the sky, so tell me Spock, how close are we to making that happen?"

It was Spock's turn to look slightly glazed over as he tried to work through everything that confused him about that sentence. He might have a far better grasp of figurative speech than he let on to Doctor McCoy, but certain things Jim said still left him floundering.

"How close are you and Scotty to pinpointing my location, Spock?" said Jim, evidently taking pity on the Vulcan.

Spock's expression cleared.

"Mr Scott has been responsible for the drop of beacons in strategic locations around your general position, Captain. Once the final beacon has been placed in 3.472 hours, I am confident that we will be able to identify your location within 3.951 minutes."

"That's brilliant, Spock!" exclaimed Jim, sounding genuinely thrilled. "In that case, I need for you to arrange to have a package of stuff dropped. Nothing too fancy, mostly just food, blankets, clothes and the like – but we need enough for seven kids."

"And for you, Jim," reminded McCoy, shaking his head in exasperation as he leaned back against a worktable.

"Yeah, sure, Bones, goes without saying," agreed Jim, with the air of someone not really listening.

He then went on to reel off a list of all he considered essential to equipping the band of children for however long they might be stranded.

"I'm thinking food for a week should be more than enough, but they'll always have a communicator if it turns out I'm wrong, right?"

"Correct, Captain," responded Spock, with the intention of gently easing Jim out of his excited babbling. Now that the blonde Captain has a concrete means to assist the children, the buzz of his energetic excitement was almost tangible through the communicator. "I will organise for such a package to be assembled immediately. We will drop it at your position promptly when the process of locating you is complete."

"Great," said Jim, sounding immensely satisfied. "In that case, I believe we all have our tasks to complete. Or at least, you do. I'll just focus on the whole surviving thing down here."

"You do that," said McCoy dryly. "And I had better not hear of any shenanigans, Jim. I know what you're like when you're stuck with free time, and it's not good."

Jim sputtered, "Free ti…Bones, I'm stranded! Not vacationing."

"If you were vacationing, I'd be _really_ worried," quipped McCoy, and headed back to his station on the other side of the lab before Jim could find a response.

"Don't suppose you'd consider throwing me at his head, would you, Spock?"

Spock looked from the communicator in his hand, to the face of Doctor McCoy, which was already settling into its familiar grumpy lines now that he was focused on his work once more. One gloved hand wielded a scalpel with vicious precision.

He placed the communicator down with exaggerated care.

"I believe the human adynaton, Captain, is 'when pigs fly'."

Jim laughed, and the world – quite illogically – brightened.


	8. A Mark So Bloody

McCoy was absolutely right, of course. Jim wasn't good with free time.

The first hour or so into his four hour wait for the supply drop, he entertained himself by trying his hand at spear fishing. While the berries – which, thanks to Miram, he knew were safe to eat – made for a delicious snack, he longed for something more substantial. So he delved into the depths of the pool, spear poised in one hand, and hung suspended in the fractured shafts of light beneath the surface in a patient bid to capture one of the shimmering purple bodies that darted by.

It took several dives and many failures, but eventually Jim was able to bring one of the oblong creatures ashore. He completed his food tests with a small sliver of its flesh, and placed the rest in a small reed-woven basket, which he anchored in the shadowed waters near the mountainside in an effort to keep the meat fresh and cool.

Jim then hiked back up to his cave, where he spent a portion of his time improving the camouflage over its entrance. He also sharpened a few staves and sunk them into the ground around the opening to act as a crude, and hopefully unnecessary, defence.

With just over two hours to go until the drop, Jim finally resorted to doing a series of circular sweeps through the surrounding forest in an effort to expand and improve the rough map he held in his head.

It was during this process of mapping the surrounding area that Jim noticed something odd.

Even before his time at Starfleet Academy – wherein he had completed a number of advanced courses in survival and tracking – Jim had been fairly adept at identifying and following trails. The same circumstances that had made him sensitive to the expressions and body language of others had honed his ability to see the evidence of prior passage where others would see only uniform foliage. It quickly became clear to him that someone – someone heavy and flat-footed and definitely not a child – had been wandering all over the woods in ever expanding loops, as if in search of something.

After stumbling across several trails of varying ages, Jim finally stumbled on one that had been created as recently as that very morning. By this time, he had determined that the only person who could possibly be making these trails was the man Miram had spoken of – the one that had stolen their food and supplies while they slept.

Jim knelt down and examined the trail with a practiced eye. The foot prints spoke of hefty man with a broad-shouldered gait, who tended to roll his weight slightly to the outside of his foot as he stepped. The mess of broken branches and disturbed ground that littered the trail suggested a man who had little experience in traipsing through the forest, and no interest in covering his tracks

Jim sat back on his haunches slowly and thought things through carefully. It was clear from the criss-crossing tracks he had been encountering all morning that the man was looking for something. Since food was more plentiful nearer to the slopes, and the man had no idea of Jim's existence, he could only deduce that what the man was searching for was Miram and her diminutive tribe.

Now, Jim would have loved to think that the man's intentions in his efforts were to make amends for the wrong he had done the children – perhaps by checking on their well-being or returning some of the stolen food. But in his experience, men who stole from children were not the type to have a change of heart, and so he was forced to consider what other motives the man might have in seeking out the youngsters.

He scowled.

If Bones were there, he would tell Jim to head back to the pool and cool his heals until he found another option. If Spock were present he might caution Jim to ensure that he had a plan, a back-up plan and an emergency contingency before he went any further. But neither of them were there, and Jim had limited time and no real alternatives. If he did not do something about it now, he would soon be too sick to do anything at all, and Miram and her brood would be left alone with a potential threat.

He thought of the tremor in Miram's hands and the poorly-hidden fear in her eyes when she had spoken of the man.

"Sorry Bones," he muttered, and headed off down the trail.

It took far less time than he would have thought to reach the end of the trail. He couldn't have been more than thirty minutes' walk from his own cave. He was thankful for the fact that the path lead him away from the pool and the direction in which he believed the children were hiding.

The man's area, when it came under Jim's gaze, was a sty. He was inhabiting a slight hollow in the mountainside, located at base level. Empty cans and torn packages – from Miram's stolen food, no doubt – were strewn across the ground, along with the rotting remnants of half-eaten fruit. The smell of stale sweat and piss and – Jim sniffed, and curled his lip – excrement hung heavily in the air.

The man was crouched with his back to Jim, apparently rooting through the empty cans on the ground. There were large sweat stains marking his back and underarms. Looking at him, even while hunkered down, Jim could tell that he was a large man. Half a head taller than Jim at least, and broad in the shoulders. But it was also immediately clear that his arms and waist had softened and gone to flab at some point, and he had the general air of a man who did not take very good care of himself.

As he approached, Jim could hear him muttering under his breath.

"…fucking kids, where the _fuck_ are they when you need 'em…"

Jim did his best to tamp down on his anger.

"Even animals know to shit downwind, you know."

Eh, so tamping down wasn't his thing.

The man spun around, greasy hair whipping about his face like an oily fan.

"The hell are you?"

Jim breathed in through his nose – ugh, _Gods,_ mistake – and smiled brightly.

"Names Jim Kirk. I serve aboard the Starship U.S.S. Enterprise. And you are?"

The man ignored Jim's question.

"Thought yore lot had left."

"Evidently not."

The man sneered – he had the right face for it, lips thick and twisted. "Whatcha all hanging about for, then? S'not like there's much of a carcass 'round here for you vultures to pick off."

"The Enterprise was originally here to collect research and samples, it's true," said Jim calmly, nodding as if the other had made a good point. "But with people getting sick on the planet's surface, of course we would remain to provide assistance where we can. The crewmembers on board-"

"I don't give a _fuck_ about yore _fucking_ Starfleet friends," exploded the man harshly, interrupting Jim's explanation. "Alien freaks and blood traitors, the whole lotta them. Swanning 'round the stars like they own every-fuckin'-thing."

Jim's smile never faltered. He had heard similar tirades about Starfleet countless times across numerous planets. His own uncle had been particularly fond of the subject.

Instead, he continued, "You know, you don't really strike me as the scientific type…"

"That's 'cause I'm not a bloody scientist." The man's eyes flickered up and down Jim's figure, settling briefly on his newly-cleaned uniform shirt and flicking to the spear in his belt, before he smiled inexplicably. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "My wife was, up until a few days ago."

"I'm sorry. Is she still up at the compound with the infected?"

"Manner of speaking," hummed the man, still smiling oddly. "When things got really nasty, and she started coming at me with those snappers of hers, I bashed her head in myself."

Jim stilled. "Why would you do that?" he asked calmly, even as the cold flush of rage caused the outer walls of his control to tremble. He thought about this man being anywhere near Miram or Ro, and his hands trembled minutely.

"Her or me. Didn't have a choice." The man shrugged and shook his head in a parody of sadness. "Tole her way back that coming to this godforsaken rock was a mistake. She shoulda listened."

Jim pressed his hands to the seams of his pants until he could be sure that they were steady. "You don't sound too torn up about having to kill her."

"Doesn't really matter now, does it? What with everybody gone," the man said thoughtfully. "I only tole you so that you'd know if I could go bashing her head in, I'd have no trouble with yours."

Jim raised his eyebrows, genuinely taken aback by the blatant threat.

"Seems a bit hasty," he responded honestly. "I'm not planning on harming you, or taking what's yours." Not a lie per se – Jim was not really one to _plan_ in these sorts of situations. "There's no need for threats."

The man's smile grew to a grin. "I want yore spear," he said genially. "And that yellow top o' yores." He shifted, and Jim noted that he had drawn a sharp shard of rock from the back of his belt. "Please."

Jim was swiftly becoming aware that he had anticipated this situation incorrectly. He had expected, when he followed the trail, to encounter a man warped by horrific circumstance. An innately shitty person, maybe, but one who's harmful choices had been driven more by fear and desperation than cruelty and calculated greed.

He had been wrong. The creature in front of him was an entirely different breed of being - one who had been looking at other people as mindless and disposable long before they started slavering. Jim had little doubt that a few explicit threats and a pithy show of force would do nothing to dissuade such a man from pursuing what he wanted. Only a proper demonstration of violence was going to make the necessary difference.

Bones was going to kill him.

He shifted minutely into a defensible stance, but kept his arms loose at his sides.

"I am a Starfleet Officer," he intoned carefully. "If you attack me, others will come for you. You will face punishment."

"Nah," responded the man, expression still thoughtful. "I don't think I will. See, there's only one of you, right? I ain't seen no ships or other Starfleet _scum_ wandering around. An' you're all scuffed up and carrying that spear-thing."

The man tilted his head and a light went on behind his eyes.

"I reckon…I reckon you're infected. And they left you down here to die."

His eyes skittered over Jim, and settled almost hungrily on his left forearm, where the gold fabric was torn and still faintly stained with red.

"You are," he breathed, and his grin then was all teeth and bloodthirsty anticipation. "You're fucking _sick_ like the rest and those rats sore it and just _left_ you down here, didn't they?"

"I-"

"Fucking Starfleet dogs," the man spoke over Jim, chuckling. "All talk an' flash, but they're the first off planet when the walls start falling in." He hawked and spat viciously at Jim's feet.

Jim waited until he was sure the man was done. Then he said, very calmly, "I would ask you not to speak ill of my crew."

The man snorted. "Fuckers left you down here to for me – don't reckon they belong to you no more."

He took a menacing step forward, and his head tilted curiously. "Didn't you have one of those Vulcan-types with you when you waltzed inta our base the other day?"

Jim stood his ground, never taking his eyes off those of his aggressor.

"My First Officer-"

"Yore First Officer?" scoffed the man. "Well, no wonder then. Bet the cold bastard barely flinched at cutting you loose. Pointy-eared freaks wouldn't know loyalty if it fucked 'em in the arse."

Somewhere beneath the cold fury that had settled like a layer of frost over his thoughts, Jim was aware of the irony of such a statement coming from a man who had killed his own wife.

He was also aware that he had gone from being in absolute control of the situation to being irreversibly, dangerously angry. He was less worried about what that meant for him than for the creature before him.

When Jim's anger burned hot, he tended to get himself hurt.

When Jim's anger burned cold, he tended to hurt other people.

His voice could have rivalled Spock's for composure when he stated, "I have already warned you against insulting my crew."

"Dunno how you can call a thing like that part of yore crew. It's not right, not even human. I'd say it should go back where it came from but," and the man grinned slowly, within touching distance now, "that can't happen, can it? What with it blowing up 'n all. Heard it took a lotta green blood with it." Their boots brushed. "Good riddance."

Jim's control was so delicate now, frozen to the point of shattering, that he could barely move his lips as he said, "This is you final warning. The assault of a Starfleet Officer-"

When the fisted rock came swinging towards Jim's temple, he was expecting it, and so by the time it passed through the air where his head had been, he was already swinging out of his crouch to bring his elbow up in a neatly-angled strike just below the man's diaphragm. And all Jim could feel – beyond the sing of adrenaline in his veins - was relief. Because he had not thrown the first blow. And now he could hit _back._

The momentum of his body brought him to his feet just as the man's spasming chest crumpled inwards, allowing Jim to bring his fisted hands down at the base of his aggressors bent back. The man arched with a cry of agony, but managed a wild swing that caught the side of Jim's face, bloodying his nose. Jim caught the offending limb and twisted, spinning the man to collide harshly with the mountain face.

The man surprised Jim briefly by kicking off the rock face and sending them both stumbling backwards. He slammed his shoulder into Jim's chest and sent them tumbling into the dirt. The smack of his head against the hard ground left Jim momentarily stunned, but he still felt the exact moment in which the sharp tool in the man's hand caught and tore into the muscle of his upper thigh.

He used his opponent's moment of perceived victory to his advantage, twisting his leg sharply so that the makeshift blade was torn from the man's grip, while simultaneously slamming his elbow up into the soft tissue of the other's throat. He followed through on that strike with three more directly to the man's face.

His aggressor fell backwards, choking and stunned, and Jim was on him in a second, slamming his head into the dirt once, twice, before flipping him over and pinning his arms to the small of his back. He then drew his makeshift spear for the first time, and laid it against the man's neck.

"Now I know it's going to be a moment before your throat remembers how to breathe, let alone talk," he told the choking and wheezing man beneath him, voice breathless but conversational. "So I'm going to take this opportunity for me to talk and you to listen."

He leaned his weight forward, grinding the man's forehead into the dirt and bringing his lips down so that they practically brushed the man's ear.

"We. Don't. Make. Jokes. About. Genocide."

The man writhed beneath him, and Jim dug the edge of the spear into his neck almost absentmindedly. The pinned body froze in terror, and he continued in even tones.

"We don't glorify it. We don't dismiss it. We don't trivialise it. Because regardless of the planet it occurs on, or the race it impacts, it remains a blemish on the souls of all those who fail to stop it. It remains wrong. And if you ever again speak of either it or my crew in the same disrespectful manner, I swear to whatever fucking deity owns your sorry excuse for a soul, I will slice out your tongue and make you eat it."

The man whimpered beneath him, quivering, and Jim smiled. It was a smile that was all glass shards, brittle and sharp.

"Good. Now, on to the real reason I'm here."

Jim shifted slightly, and flipped his spearhead upwards so that it was pressing against the soft flesh under the man's chin.

"Why were you looking for the kids?"

The man groaned and drew shallow breaths through his teeth. "I wasn'!"

"Don't lie to me! It's not about food, you took that already, and it's certainly not conscience, you left them before, so what's changed?"He pressed a bit harder, and a trickle of blood rolled down the man's throat. He whined desperately.

"Didn't need them then, did I?"

"But you do now? Why?"

"Cause they're mine!" hissed the man, and suddenly he was writhing again, furious and quite mad. "S'been days, the others are gone, Starfleet's gone, and that means this world is mine. They're mine, and I can have them if I want to!"

"Have them?" queried Jim icily. The man did not answer, but Jim could see the flicker of hollow hunger in his gaze, and his worst suspicions regarding the man's intentions for Miram and the others were confirmed. He was sickened.

"Starfleet's not gone while I'm here, asshole," he snarled, and punched the man sharply in the face again. "Starfleet's right fucking here." He punched him again. "And you will have those children over my cold," punch, "dead," punch, "body."

He stripped his belt and looped it around the man's wrists in one deft movement, pulling tight, before he rose and flipped him over. He then began dragging him over to a spot where he could brace one of his straightened legs against a rock. He paused to swipe the sluggish flow of blood from his own nose.

"You gonna kill me?" whimpered the man, through his bloody daze.

"No, I'm not gonna kill you," growled Jim, disgusted. "I'm not an executioner. But we both know I can't just let you go – you'll slit my throat the first chance you get. And as you pointed out, I'm a sick man – I can't keep you. So…"

He braced the leg, and the man - realising what he was about to do – began whimpering and struggling wildly.

"Relax," said Jim with mock reassurance. "My best friend's a doctor."

Then he brought his foot down twice sharply.

The cracks were muffled, but no less nauseating for that, and Jim shuddered. He was finding it difficult to compartmentalise the part of him that knew he had to do this from the part that was sickened by his actions, and he knew that at some point he would suffer for this encounter. No doubt the next time he closed his eyes in pursuit of a peaceful night's sleep.

The man howled. His voice rose up through the dirt and trees, and bounced off the blue black stones of the mountains to form an echoing cacophony. It went on and on, and then dropped abruptly into a series of pitiful whimpers.

Jim dragged the man back to his hollow, none to gently, and lay him on his back. His right leg – the one the man had succeeded in stabbing during their struggle – trembled beneath him, but he forced himself to ignore it until he completed his task.

He pulled three of the man's stolen blankets from a nook. One, he folded up and placed beneath the thrashing head. Another, he wrapped around a flattish slab of stone, which he then propped beneath the man's legs. The last, he laid over the man's body.

As he settled the last blanket, the man's head rose slightly, and he croaked, "What're you doing?"

"Treating you for shock," replied Jim shortly. "But believe me when I tell you that it's more than you deserve."

Jim pried open one of the full cans amid the detritus on the floor, and placed it near the man's right side. He filled another empty one from a nearby water catchment, and did the same. Then he stood, arms crossed, staring down at the pitiful figure until his eyes were met.

"Your leg is broken in two places. Moving at anything faster than a crawl is going to be agony. You've got one good leg and a pair of functional arms, so you should have no problem subsisting off the food and water you have immediately available to you. What you should have a problem doing is running after any little girls."

Jim blinked, and attempted to pass a brief wave of vertigo off as a considering pause.

"Starfleet is working on developing a cure for the disease afflicting the base. If you are still alive at the time when they succeed and return to the surface, you will be tried for your crimes against a Federation officer, and generally judged for being a nasty piece of shit."

He turned away and scooped his spear from out of the dust. He tucked it in his belt, dusted himself off, and took two steps towards the trees before halting abruptly.

His voice, when he spoke again, was incredibly soft, but the wide-eyed man behind him caught every word.

"My First Officer," he murmured, "is around ten time the being you, or I, could ever be. And you are not fit to lick his damn boots."

Then he limped into the shadow of the trees, and out of sight.


	9. Of Flesh and Blood

Jim made it about twenty yards beyond the fringe of the trees before his wounded leg buckled beneath him. His knees his the ground, hard, and for a moment he just stayed there, elbows braced in the dirt and back heaving as he breathed harshly. He could feel the last vestiges of adrenaline from the fight twinging in his joints and fingers, causing his hands to twitch and quiver where they lay tangled just beneath his drooping head.

He allowed himself just one moment of utter exhaustion.

Then he flipped himself over and, with hands that now trembled only slightly more than he would have liked, tore a strip from the sleeve of his shirt to bind around the injury to his thigh. The wound he glimpsed beneath the blood-darkened material of his pants looked ragged and ugly, but he put off a more thorough examination until his return to the pool. The drop was due all too soon, and Jim wanted to be in a stable location to receive the package.

The walk to the pool was gruelling. Jim eventually gave in to his own weakness, and sourced a branch from the surrounding trees that he leaned on heavily for last few hundred metres. He arrived – with minutes to spare, by his estimation – and collapsed with his back against the cool mountain rock near the edge of the water. Minute tremors continued to run through his legs from the exertion, and he could feel where cooling sweat had collected above his lip and in the hollows of his temples.

He was just contemplating whether it was worth the effort of rolling over onto his stomach to scoop a few palmfuls of water from the pool, when the communicator in his belt chirped insistently.

"Uhura to Kirk."

Jim let out a few swift breaths from between pursed lips, regulating his breathing, before flipping the com open with one hand. As he did so, he noted that the nails of the fingers that curled around the battered casing were lined with dirt and blood.

"Kirk here," he responded evenly. "Tell me you have good news, Lieutenant."

"We have your location, Captain. Preparations to make the drop are almost complete," said Uhura, and Jim couldn't help but crack a fond smile at her usual brisk efficiency. The two of them got along quite well these days – having bonded over their fair share of arduous missions, and a shared love of languages – but even when the no-nonsense woman had still disliked him, she had always afforded him the respect and professionalism that his rank as Captain deserved.

Uhura continued, "Estimated time of arrival for the package is in about one-and-a-half minutes."

"Good news indeed," approved Jim, even as a throb in his temples caused his vision to waver. "I don't mind telling you, I am more than ready for a few creature comforts."

"Yes, Sir," responded Uhura, but then her voice warmed somewhat from its professional tone. "I'm sure it'll be quite a relief. God alone knows how you've survived down there so far without the goods for your usual hair routine."

"I will have you know, Lieutenant," stated Jim with great dignity, "that there is no 'hair routine', as you put it. There is simply my natural state of perfection."

"Nice try, Captain, but you forget that my ex shares a bathroom with you. I've heard things…"

"Treachery," declared Jim beneath his breath, and Uhura laughed. The sound cheered Jim, and he could almost forget about the rhythmic throbbing in his head and thigh.

"Just in from Scotty, Captain," came Uhura's voice again, efficient once more. "Beam down should commence…now."

Jim looked up in time to see the last swirls of matter stream that heralded the arrival of a largish metal trunk and a canvas bag. The words 'U.S.S. ENTERPRISE' were printed boldly on the sides of both.

"Drop received, Lieutenant," declared Jim, allowing some of the relief he felt to seep into his voice. "Tell Spock and Scotty they're my heroes, wouldja?"

"I'm sure they'll be thrilled to hear it," responded Uhura, and there was a smug tone to her voice that Jim couldn't place.

Another throb of pain emanated from his thigh, seeming to reach into his bones and effectively distracting him from the exchange. He hissed.

"Captain?" queried Uhura.

"Apologies, Lieutenant," responded Kirk, struggling to keep any hint of strain from his voice. "Just can't wait to seek out those hair products you mentioned."

Uhura gave a very unladylike snort in response, and there was no hint of suspicion in her voice when she said, "Very good, Captain. I'll leave you to it. Uhura out."

Kirk hummed in response, and stowed the communicator. He frowned and blinked rapidly. A long and intimate relationship with blood loss told him that the vague spin of his vision and rising ring in his ears was a bad sign. He was in dire need of a proper patch-up, and knowing his overbearing best friend, there was a medical kit in the box of supplies that would be more than equal to the task.

With this in mind, Jim made to stand up and approach the container. Immediately, the world around him swayed and folded inwards around the edges. He found himself seated once more, eyes trained blankly on the lines of browning blood caught in the creases and whorls of his palms, and quite unsure of how he had got there. The throbbing in his temples had increased in intensity, and his head and limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated.

He closed his eyes in order to bring his thoughts back into focus, and found himself slipping sideways into unconsciousness instead.

 _Shit…_

XXX

McCoy eyed the reaction of substances before him, flipped through the notes on his PADD, and banished yet another promising avenue of inquiry with a twitch of his fingers and a frustrated growl. An ensign a few feet away from him jumped at the noise, and let a delicate looking glass vial – thankfully empty - fall from his fingers with a smash.

McCoy rounded on him in a second.

"If the only thing you're good for on this godforsaken tin can is destroying the lab equipment, the least you can do is take yourself somewhere where I don't have to _watch it_. Some of those tubes carry dangerous substances, and I will not bear witness to you killing us all through sheer fucking _bumbling ineptitude_. Now _scram_."

The ensign fumbled a salute that almost poked his own eye out, and scurried out of the lab as if his heels were on fire.

McCoy looked around to find the rest of the lab empty. It was deadshift for the science division, and between him and Spock, they had probably scared off most of the personnel that would usually be spending their free hours in the labs. If Jim were there, he would most likely ream them both out for reducing more than one ensign to tears amid the stress of the last few days.

But Jim wasn't there. And that was the whole goddamn problem.

Spock still hadn't slept, McCoy knew, and while he would normally be on the Vulcan's back over that, in this instance he could not find it in himself to protest. If his human biology would allow it, he would forgo sleep as well. As it was, both he and Spock were heading up their own research teams working on the synthesis of a cure for what the scientists were tentatively referring to as the 'Biting Sickness'. They met frequently to compare results and hypothesise new approaches, but so far they had made very little progress.

McCoy was fast losing hope that they would be able to come up with a solution before the next stage of Jim's symptoms set in.

 _Speaking of Jim…_

McCoy interrupted his ruminations to glance over at the chronometer on the wall, and frowned. It was his turn to monitor Jim's check-ins – as part of a schedule divided between Spock, Uhura and him – and at this point his closest friend and idiot of a Captain was officially over twenty minutes late.

McCoy's instincts – always finely attuned to Jim's state of being – went abruptly haywire.

True, Lieutenant Uhura had assured him that Jim had given no sign of distress when confirming the drop just a while before…but considering that McCoy had once watched his friend broker a peace treaty between two warring nations while never once letting on that he was bleeding out under the table, he wasn't one to accept things as they appeared when it came to the errant Captain.

He was never sure if Jim's proficiency at concealing hurt was because he did not want others to notice it, or because he did not notice it himself. Jim simply did not register maladies and injuries on the same scale of severity as other people. In his mind, they were always secondary to the completion of the task at hand – whether it was completing a shift, negotiating a new trade deal or babysitting a bunch of kids on a diseased planet.

So maybe Jim did not notice his own hurts in the way he should, but McCoy _did_ notice them. It was his job, and as much as he might grumble and groan about it to Jim's face, it was a job he valued above all others.

It was McCoy, trailing in Jim's wake with tricorder firmly in hand, who kept tabs on all the little injuries and inconsistencies that if left alone, could build up to real harm. It was McCoy, with a forced meal here and a spot of regeneration there when the Captain was too distracted to protest, who kept Jim in one piece just long enough for the mission to be completed, at which point he could drag him back to sickbay for a proper medical and – more often than not – an overdue few hours of rest. Sedated, if necessary.

Jim may have been the star of the fleet – all heat and brightness and brilliance in most every venture he undertook – but McCoy was the one who kept him from burning out.

McCoy flipped open his communicator with a deft hand.

"McCoy to Kirk."

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and McCoy was just preparing to hail once more when an unknown voice piped up.

"'lo. S'Ro speaking. Mister Jim can' talk at th'moment."

McCoy stared blankly at the com for all of about three seconds before he caught on.

"This wouldn't happen to be the lovely princess Jim's being telling me all about, would it?"

There was a thrilled sound. "Y's, that's me!"

McCoy smiled despite himself. He thought of his young daughter back home in Georgia, and a little more of his Southern drawl leaked into his voice as he said, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, darlin'. Y'all doing alright down there?"

"Y's," came the dutiful reply. "Mister Jim got us food! Real food, not like plants 'n berries 'n stuff."

McCoy's heart warmed at the awe in that voice, appreciative of the confirmation that the package had arrived safely.

"Yeah, Mister Jim's good with things like that. Where is he right now, darlin'?

"Oh, he's jus' busy cleaning off th'blood," replied Ro easily. "He tol' me, since I know all 'bout these things now, I could be'n charge of the com'cator while he was busy. Where's Miss U'ra?"

McCoy swallowed down his panic at the mention of blood. "She's sleeping right now, sweetheart. It's her off-shift. Is Mister Jim hurt?"

There was a little girl sound of disappointment on the other end of the phone, before Ro continued.

"He says he's not hurted bad, an' that we shouldn' make a fuss, but he was sleepin' when we came back. Took Mimi aaages to wake'm up. An'," Ro lowered her voice in the tone of one telling a secret, "Mimi says he's being a big silly an' a…a stub'n ass."

Ro sounded a mixture of awed and scandalised as she confided that last bit, and McCoy might have been amused were he not worrying about his oaf of a friend.

"Miss Mimi sounds like a mighty smart lil lady, Princess," he said. "D'you think you can take the com over to Jim for me so I can tell him to listen to her?"

Ro stifled a giggle, and then there was a muffled, "Oh!"

"S'okay, Mister 'Coy, Jim's done in th'pool now and he says he wants to talk t'you." There was the sound of a communicator being clumsily handled, and Ro's muffled voice saying, "You said he was grumpy. He's not grumpy at all, he's nice!"

"Only to beautiful princesses like you, I'm afraid, Ro-Ro," came Jim's tones, and McCoy was relieved to hear that they sounded steady, if a bit tired and strained. "It's troublesome old men like me who get the grumpy treatment."

"Too right," mumbled McCoy under his breath, and then louder, "I hear you're a stubborn ass, Jim."

"And I hear you're nice, 'Mister 'Coy'. In either case, who would have thought, right?"

McCoy huffed. "Update, Jim. What damage have you done to yourself now? And how the He…blazes did you manage to do it in the last five-odd hours?"

He heard Jim sigh. "Ro-Ro, go ask Miram if she would start prepping something for lunch, wouldja? I'm starving."

"Kay, Jim."

Jim's voice returned, drawing nearer to the com.

"You know, five hours is actually quite a long time, Bones."

McCoy's grip on the communicator tightened to the point that he could hear the casing creak. "Dammit, Jim! Quit fooling around and tell me what's wrong with you. Is it the disease? Has something changed? Is it safe for you to be around the kids, 'cause-"

"Bones! It's not that. Just…slow down," interrupted Jim, and now McCoy could hear the unsteadiness in his voice. He must have been putting up a front for the kids, because there was no way the Doctor could mistake the underlying hoarseness to his words for anything other than fatigue and pain.

"Is it the wound on your arm?" demanded McCoy, running through a mental list of all that might have resulted in Jim being bloody. To his chagrin, it was a long list.

"Um…No, actually, Bones. This…it's…well, see, I may have…um…"

"Spit it out, Jim."

"Gotten into a bit of a fight," said Jim very quickly, and then took in a gulp of air like he was preparing himself for an explosion.

McCoy did not disappoint.

"God _dammit,_ Jim," he exploded. "A fight? How…who did you even…sonova…"

McCoy huffed a few deep breaths, bringing his incoherency more or less to heel. "I said no shenanigans! And what do you do? Fuck's sake…I _told_ Spock this would happen-"

"Spock's there?" enquired Jim, sounding a mix of trepidatious and endearingly hopeful.

McCoy threw up his hands in exasperation.

"No, Spock's not here, Jim. Focus, dammit!"

"Is he okay?" came Jim's worried response.

McCoy gaped. "Is he…? Of course he's okay! He's _working,_ Jim. And unlike some people I know, he's actually capable of doing that without injuring himself every few hours!"

"S'bit of a stretch, Bones," said Jim, sounding vaguely reproachful.

"Five hours, Jim. Five." McCoy pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

"Right," he continued decisively. "Report. What kind of damage are we looking at here? Kid said something about blood. And were you unconscious earlier?"

"Um. Briefly. It was more like a nap than anything else."

McCoy grit his teeth at Jim's light tone.

"Bullshit. Head wound? Blood loss?"

"Negative on the head wound, Bones. Blood loss though…I…might have got stabbed in the leg…a little."

"Well, as long as it's only a little," snarled McCoy. "Is the wound still bleeding?"

There was a shuffling sound, and then a cautious negative from the other end of the com. "I've been keeping it bound up tight, Bones."

"With _what,_ shirt strips?"

The guilty silence told him all he needed to know.

"Typical," he muttered. "Anything else I should know about?"

"Just scrapes and bruises, really. Nothing serious. I was about to go looking for the medkit when you commed."

"You'll want the canvas bag," offered McCoy. "Everything you should need is in there."

He added under his breath, "And a few things you shouldn't, but I ain't holding my breath."

The sounds of muffled movement filtered down the com-line, followed by the low growl of a zip and Jim's huffed exclamation.

"Jesus, Bones, who stocked this thing? Looks like half the damn medbay is in here."

"I did, you idiot," snapped McCoy. "And what's in there is just about right for a hare-brained captain with a chronic lack of self-preservation."

Jim grumbled slightly, but wisely dropped the subject.

McCoy settled back in his chair, com cradled in his hands, and tried not to think of how much it bothered him that he could not see and address Jim's wounds himself. He cleared his throat.

"Right, Jimbo, you should know the drill by now. Use a blood-replenishing hypo first – don't need you 'napping' again before your patch-up is done."

"Oh god," whined Jim. "How can you possibly be able to torture me with hyposprays from _over 1000km away?_ "

"CMO's privilege," deadpanned McCoy, listening to the faint _hiss-and-click_ of the hypospray with some satisfaction. "And there's another few of those to go, Jim, so don't get comfy."

Jim groaned, but did not otherwise protest.

"Grab the general anti-biotic – might not combat everything, but should keep your leg from rotting off. Also, an immune-booster – I know what your system is like – and one of the nutrient hypos. There's several of those, and I expect one to be used every six hours, Jim."

There were a series of _hiss-and-click_ sounds, followed by Jim's weak, "I hate you."

"Sure you do, kid," responded McCoy with a wry smile. "You know how to use the portable regenerator?"

"Yeah, Bones, believe it or not, as _Captain,_ I have kept my medical emergency field-license up to date. I'm not _totally_ irresponsible."

"Less bitchiness, more regeneration," said McCoy sternly. "How deep's the stab wound?"

"Bout three, three-and-a-half inches, maybe?" There was some shuffling, followed by a muffled yelp, and McCoy growled.

"Stop _poking_ it, you infant! I'd say about six passes of the regenerator should do it – just make sure to do them properly." McCoy's brow creased and the edges of his mouth curled downwards in displeasure as he added, "It's gonna sting like a bitch without anaesthesia, Jimbo, 'fraid there ain't nothing I can do about that."

"Awesome," muttered Jim, somewhat acerbically, but McCoy could hear the faint hum of the regenerator being fired up.

Jim's voice came again. "Something tells me my focus is gonna be elsewhere for a little while, Bones. Plus I need both hands for this. Go…do doctor stuff. I'll update you when I'm back in one piece."

"Thirty minutes, Jim, and I'm checking in again. That should be enough time to get yourself sorted. McCoy out."

McCoy disconnected the com, and sighed. In the oppressive silence of the empty lab, he abruptly felt very tired and small. In moments like these, he imagined he could feel the full immensity of the endless expanse beyond the ship's walls pressing down upon his skin, stifling him as only limitless possibility could. He was not like Jim, who thrived on the unknown and inconstant. He needed to be grounded. With this in mind, he promised himself that, once the current crisis had been dealt with, he would schedule a long overdue call with Joanna. It would do him good to hear his daughter's voice again.

Steeling himself, he turned back to his PADD and began quietly working his way through the next set of data.


	10. A Spirit Too Delicate

In the quiet of his quarters, Spock slowly opened his eyes and clenched his hands together in his lap so tightly that the nailbeds whitened.

In the corners of his vision, the languid curl of aromatic smoke from the incense burning at his feet created strange patterns as it wove in and out of the red glow of the lights. The switch to red-light mode in his cabin was intended to simulate the night-time lighting of Vulcan, and better facilitate the focus required for effective meditation.

It had failed.

37.86 minutes had already passed, and Spock had not succeeded in achieving the proper state. Considering it usually took him an average of 6.68 minutes to do this, and had done so since early childhood, the situation was…disconcerting.

It did not help that he had no real wish to meditate. He would far rather be working on the cure for Ji-… for the planet's occupants in the labs. But he had reluctantly concluded that, in the absence of sleep, a brief period of meditation would be beneficial in managing the relative chaos of thought and feeling that had overtaken his being since the instant in which he had met the eyes of his Captain through the matter stream engulfing his body and realised that he was leaving him behind.

Spock had long ago abandoned the conviction that Vulcans did not feel, though he might occasionally claim otherwise in response to those who did not understand the nuances of his culture, or in the interest of riling one Doctor McCoy. In the aftermath of Vulcan's destruction, with the remaining members of his race mired in mental anguish and so clearly mourning, grieving, in their own way, he had been forced to view the Vulcan capacity for emotion in a new light. Thereafter, it had taken only a few months on board the Enterprise for him to firmly establish that the denial of emotion was absurd and, indeed, dangerous.

And after all, how could emotion be a disadvantage when one of the most brilliant and competent men he knew embraced it so readily?

Spock was no fool. He knew that Jim Kirk hid many things. But whatever horrors the man might have endured and buried deep within himself, he had emerged from the other side, not cold and closed to the world, but determined to never deny himself the simple pleasure of embracing those human feelings that were most precious and vulnerable. Joy, mischief, compassion, curiousity, and the bright-eyed eagerness for the world and all it had to offer that made him so incredibly difficult to deny. Jim displayed all with a shamelessness that Spock admired and, quietly and without any bitterness, envied.

Acknowledging emotions would never come naturally to him – he would always feel the need to separate and discount those responses in the interest of pursuing the logical course. Such was his nature, and he had worked to make peace with it. However, in times such as these – when his Captain was hurt or in danger or beyond his reach - he never failed to be overwhelmed by the immense depth and scope of his emotional responses.

These responses were what he wished to control through meditation, and yet it was also this state that seemed to be preventing him from meditating at all. He could feel his fear, of the harm that had and might yet befall the man that he respected and cared for. Anger, at that same man for withholding information and denying his First the option of keeping him close. Shame, at the knowledge that it was his error – his miscalculation – that had allowed this intolerable situation to begin with, and that his continued inadequacy was keeping it from being resolved.

Spock closed his eyes once more and growled low in his throat. They were illogical, such emotions, and yet…and yet in this instance he could not seem to set them aside.

Because beneath it all, the essential element that remained true and damning across all feeling was that Jim was not there, and it hurt. Spock's entire being ached with the absence of the other man.

Spock knew that at some point, he would need to carefully examine this…sensitivity to his Captain's state of being. But not yet.

He rose swiftly to his feet, snuffing the incense and rolling up his meditation mat in one practised movement. A barked command returned the lighting in the cabin to its usual brightness, and he paused briefly as his pupils adjusted.

Enough time had been wasted on fruitless meditation and reflection. His usual mental order might evade him, but in the brief period of quiet he had already managed to formulate another five potential avenues of scientific enquiry. He would return to the labs, and he would find a cure for the planet Paradiso's affliction, even if it pushed him to the limits of his Vulcan biology to do so.

And in that time, he would not dwell on his Captain's absence.

The com on his desk beeped, and Doctor McCoy's irate tones filtered through.

"Spock? Spock, you there?"

"I am present, Doctor." Spock removed his meditation robe and began folding it carefully.

"'Bout time, too. Nap time's over, I need you in lab 3. We push through processing this next set of samples and hopefully we can have Jim back on board before he rolls out the next scene in his pincushion act."

Spock blinked. "I am afraid I do not follow. 'Pincushion act'?"

McCoy made a dismissive noise. "Idiot got himself stabbed. I talked him through patch-up, so he should be fine. What's more important is the 'I told you so' you have coming your way. There was no way that infant was going to make it through the day without ending up in peril – shouldn't be allowed to pilot a tricycle, let alone a goddamn starship…"

The rest of McCoy's grumbling was lost upon Spock, focused as he was on controlling his breathing. He registered no surprise when the garment in his hands tore violently.

"…Spock?" McCoy queried, sounding uncharacteristically cautious.

"I will be in lab 3 momentarily, Doctor," he stated with incredible calm, and ended the transmission.

He then exited his cabin at a brisk pace that the pair of Ensigns he passed in the hall might almost have called a run, were it not for the fact that this was Mr Spock they were talking about, and running in starship hallways was most certainly against protocol.

XXX

The whir of the regenerator was soothing, despite the slight sting that came with its passes over his damaged flesh. Jim leaned his head back against the sun-warmed rocks behind him, and allowed himself to be ever so slightly lulled.

Gods, he was tired.

The soft scuff of shoe against dirt brought his eyes open once more. He looked up to see Miram standing over him, staring fixedly at the regenerator poised over his leg. He blinked.

"Alright there, Miram?"

She met his eyes, and she had that look again – the one that said she was afraid something was be too good to be true, and might vanish if she blinked. "That's a regenerator, isn't it?"

"It is," confirmed Jim.

"And it works on anyone?"

Jim wrestled his way through his uncharacteristic lethargy, and took in Miram's almost hungry expression.

"Miram," he said gently, considering, "are any of your kids hurt?"

She bit her lip, and nodded, a sheen of tears in her eyes.

"I see," said Jim, keeping his voice low and calm for the girl who hovered indecisively in front of him. "Okay. This is a dermal regenerator. It works on anyone. Do you think you would be okay with me coming over to the kids, and helping fix them up?"

She nodded again.

"Alright then," said Jim simply, and began to stand up.

"But you're not done with you," fretted Miram, sounding strangely close to tears.

"Ah, I'm tough as old nails, kid. And this little scratch is mostly dealt with anyway. Now, how about you introduce me to your kids, huh?"

There were seven of them, just as Miram had said. Watching her move among them, nodding reassuringly to those who looked skittish and grounding some of the younger ones with a comforting touch to the shoulder or brow, Jim's impression of her as the leader and guide of the rag-tag group was reinforced.

Miram's every movement was shadowed by a dark-skinned boy that she introduced as Ben. At thirteen years old, the boy was small for his age, standing at a few inches shorter than Miram. His eyes, however, were sharp and shrewd, and he gave the impression of being constantly coiled in preparation for a spring. His appraisal of Jim was openly suspicious, but he echoed Miram's polite introduction, and his eyes, when they rested on her, held an implicit trust that Jim understood completely.

Next met was eleven-year-old A'am, whose exceedingly pale skin, elongated arms and torso, and distinctly delicate features marked him as part of a familial line that had likely been long departed from Earth – perhaps from one of the older off-world colonies. He had large violet eyes and a shy countenance, preferring to keep his gaze on the younger children as he spoke. They in turn clustered around him like flowers on a vine.

In his arms, A'am held the toddler, Elben. The child was dark-haired, plump and abnormally silent, choosing to alternate between gazing adoringly up at his violet-eyed keeper, and staring with solemn eyes at the others around him while sucking diligently on one small fist. Jim's lips thinned when he saw that the toddler's other hand was wrapped in blood-stained cloth, and tucked tightly against his small body.

The eight-year-old girl twins, Auriel and Lailah, seemed to be in constant motion. Both vibrant red-heads, they flitted among their companions like diminutive butterflies. Every now and then, they would collide in a flurry of limbs and giggles, only to blow apart again in pursuit of the next curiosity that caught their attention. No matter how far afield they floated, however, they returned at periodic intervals to the spot where A'am sat quietly, letting their fingers alight on his shoulders or in his hair as if to reassure him of their presence, and vice versa.

Ro was everywhere Jim looked. Perching on A'am's knee to hold a garbled conversation with wide-eyed Elben. Wrapping her limbs around Ben's calf in an effort to make him pick her up. Running after the twins to scold them for drifting too far away. And reappearing at Jim's side through each new introduction to grasp his hand and passively assert her claim.

After all the other introductions had been completed, Jim knelt slowly in front of Elben, holding his gaze with a small smile.

"Hello, Elben," he murmured softly. He extended one hand to rest palm up in the air between them. "I'm Jim."

For a moment, Elben only stared, neither welcoming nor denying the gesture. Then, with the gravitas that comes naturally to all toddlers, he reached out and patted Jim's palm twice with one gob-covered hand.

Behind him, A'am relaxed minutely, and looked at Jim directly for the first time.

"'is 'and…you can fix it, no?"

The boy's voice held the faint lilt of what had once probably been a French accent.

"Absolutely," reassured Jim. He looked at Elben once more and lifted the regenerator slightly. "I'm going to use this to make your hand better, Elben. I'm afraid it may sting a little – I'm really sorry about that – but I promise it won't hurt anymore when I'm done. Is that alright?"

Elben looked unsure, but after a brief glance back at A'am, he allowed the older boy to hold out his injured hand.

Jim unwrapped it with the utmost care, taking the time to wet the bandage in the places where it had stuck to the wound. Elben whimpered once or twice, but Jim believed it was more due to his insecurity over a stranger's proximity to his injury than pain. Each time, A'am would murmur comfortingly into the toddler's ear, quieting him.

The wound, when it was finally revealed, was not pretty. Although they had evidently been cleaned, the deep scrapes and gouges on the back of Elben's hand were inflamed around the edges – a clear sign of infection. The skin around the scrapes was darkly bruised.

Jim paused, and Miram must have seen the question in his eyes, because she explained, "It was a rock that did it. Back when we were still with…with the man from the base. Elben was upset, he kept crying for his mama, and the man told him to stop it. But Elben…he didn't mean anything by it, he was just scared and he didn't understand what was going on, but when he didn't stop crying the man got really angry and he…he…"

Miram stuttered to a stop, seemingly unable to continue. Or perhaps she had simply seen the look on Jim's face. He could not be sure, but it felt fixed in lines of murderous anger.

 _I should have broken both legs._

It was only a soft, unsure noise from Elben that broke him out of his downward spiral. The little boy was staring at his mangled hand, seemingly perturbed. When he looked up at Jim, there was a sheen of tears in his eyes, and Jim could see the tension in his quivering chin as he tried to keep them from falling.

Jim felt something in his chest crumple inwards.

"Oh, darling," he murmured, unthinkingly stealing Bones' endearment as he reached to brush gentle fingers through the toddler's locks. "I'm so sorry he did that to you. He was wrong. It's alright to cry."

He allowed a tear of his own to slip easily down his face, and Elben's gasping breaths slowed as his eyes followed its path in fascination.

"See?" murmured Jim. "It's alright to cry, always. Just as long as we're not always crying, yes?"

Then he winked and pulled a funny face that had Elben letting out a bemused giggle.

"That's better," praised Jim. "Now I'm going to get started, and between A'am and I we're going to make sure that hand is good as new."

Jim caught A'am's eye as he dragged the medical kit closer to himself, and was struck by the amount of compassion and understanding he found in the boy's eyes. He got the impression that those eyes saw more than he would like, reaching far beyond his gentle exterior to the knot of cold anger that still rested just below his breastbone. This impression coupled with the uncanny affinity the boy had with the other children unsettled him. He dropped his gaze quickly.

Despite spending most of his time on the receiving end of medical care over the course of his life, Jim was no slouch when it came to administering aid. Even before he had taken up the position of Captain of the Enterprise – and the responsibilities that came with it – he had always made an effort to keep his first aid knowledge up to date. Such skills had saved both him and others on more than one occasion.

He deftly administered an anti-biotic hypo, and kept his regeneration of Elben's open wounds as swift and efficient as possible, all the while keeping up a steady stream of meaningless chatter that kept the toddler focused on his voice rather than his actions. In those moments when Elben's attention wavered – either due to the sting or Jim's need to focus elsewhere – A'am would step in to soothe the child's fussing with a soft word or touch. The gentle ease with which the 11-year-old calmed the child cemented Jim's conviction that a round of Psi-testing would be necessary in the near future.

Finally, all that remained to be done was a brief round with the bone regenerator to heal a minor fracture Jim had identified in Elben's fragile finger bones. When he pulled the instrument from the bag, Miram – who had been silently attentive up until this point – chipped in for the first time.

"Oh, I know that one. The Starfleet man showed me how to use one, in case we needed it after we left the base."

Jim hummed absentmindedly in response, focused upon the delicate procedure.

Had Jim been running on all cylinders, he would have thought to pursue that statement. To ask important questions, like where the regenerator they had been showed was now, and who else knew how to use it. But as it was he was tired and still a little dizzy from blood loss and entirely caught up in the task of distracting the toddler while he set and healed the injured fingers, so Miram's statement passed without further comment.

It was an oversight he would come to regret.

XXX

It was almost a quarter of an hour after Jim finished healing Elben's hand when the com device chirped again.

Jim was sitting with his back against a tree, quietly directing the other children in packing the supplies they would be taking back to their hidey-hole. His directions had to be quiet, as he had a sleeping toddler curled in his lap.

Upon completion of the procedure on his hand, Elben had crawled into Jim's lap and refused to be moved. It was clear that he understood Jim's role in relieving his pain, and adored him for it. It had not taken long for him to drop off. Loathe as he was to disturb the worn-out child, Jim had resigned himself to sitting still for the moment. That it allowed him an opportunity for some much-needed rest was neither here nor there.

Jim had been anticipating a check-in from McCoy, so he was somewhat surprised when it was Spock's voice that emerged from the communicator. Even more so when the Vulcan's voice came through unusually breathless.

"Captain? Please report immediately on your status."

Jim fumbled with the communicator, terrified that the noise would disturb the child in his lap. He needn't have worried though – Elben was dead to the world.

"Spock," he managed, "all's well, status is hale and hearty. Why? Did something happen upstairs?"

"Negative, Captain. It's…I was led to believe you were in peril."

Jim glanced around at the chattering and laughing children that surrounded him, somewhat nonplussed. "Um…no?"

McCoy faint voice entered the exchange, growing louder as he drew closer to the other com device. "Dammit, Spock, I said _was_ in peril. Emphasis on the past tense. And then I told you that he had been patched up and that the situation was stable. There was absolutely no need for you to come shooting through my lab like a rat out of an aqueduct. Jesus, man, you could have done yourself an injury. More importantly, you could have done _me_ an injury."

"I apologise, Doctor," replied Spock, already sounding back to his usual self. "It appears there was a miscommunication."

"More like an overreaction," muttered McCoy. There was an ominous moment of silence – in which Jim could almost picture the non-glare the doctor was receiving from the Vulcan – before McCoy continued hastily.

"Sooo, Jim. Hale and hearty, huh? Do I need to worry that you're lying to your Doctor at all?"

"Nope," assured Jim, popping his lips on the 'p' in a manner he knew Bones found irritating. "I'm a model patient, I am. Just getting the loot split and the kids geared up before they head off again."

"Remember to keep enough supplies for yourself," reminded McCoy sternly.

Jim rolled his eyes, content in the knowledge that McCoy wasn't there to see him, only to have the man in question add, "Don't roll your eyes at me, you infant."

Jim froze halfway through the action, and eyed the com suspiciously. "That's just downright creepy, Bones."

"Captain," interjected Spock. "Before the children part ways with you, it is imperative that you acquire samples of their bloodwork for analysis aboard the enterprise. It may be vital to developing a cure for the planet's affliction."

"Say what now?" demanded Jim, seeing Miram halt in her actions and look over at the com suspiciously.

"The hobgoblin's right, Jim, their blood could be the key to figuring this thing out. We have to know why they aren't afflicted by the disease. I meant to talk with you about it earlier, but I was distracted by the fact that you'd gotten yourself stabbed." Jim grumbled at the doctor's wording, but McCoy ignored him. "There are empty vials in the supply box. Get as many samples as you can and we'll beam them up to the lab. We have a sealed environment ready and waiting."

All activity around Jim had stopped by now as the children watched the com warily. At the mention of taking blood, the twins had scampered behind A'am and were now peering around him with wide eyes. Only Miram ignored the device, choosing instead to stare at Jim through narrowed eyes.

Jim remained silent as he reached around the sleeping toddler in his arms, and flipped open the supply box. After a moment's searching, he pulled out the vials Bones had mentioned and inspected them.

"Jim?" McCoy prompted impatiently.

"Hush, Bones, I'm thinking."

MCoy grumbled something that sounded like 'God forbid', but he subsided into silence thereafter.

Jim eyed the assembled vials a moment longer, before turning to Miram.

"What do you say, Miram? It's your call."

"Captain-," began Spock stiffly, but Jim hushed him.

"You heard the doctor – taking a bit of blood from each of you could really help with developing a cure for what's going on down here. But the choice is yours. No-one is going to force you to give blood."

Miram looked stunned at being consulted, and watched Jim warily for a moment as if expecting him to rescind the offer as a joke. He just waited patiently.

Finally, she turned to her kids and looked them over carefully. Most looked mildly apprehensive, but not overly deterred by the idea. Only one of the twin girls, Lailah, was outright shaking her head, having turned a pale shade of green.

"Alright," said Miram, before adding firmly, "But not Lailah or Elben."

Jim acquiesced easily, and proceeded to draw a small amount of blood from each of the children, labelling them with their names and ages, and keeping up the same stream of comforting chatter that had helped Elben through his procedure earlier. The only child that experienced any real distress was Auriel. At the first sign of impending tears, however, Ro skipped over to the other girl without any prompting and began pulling funny faces at her. By the time Jim finished, Auriel was giggling, albeit somewhat tearily.

Jim packed the vials neatly in a case, and had Miram place it in a position dictated to him by Spock. The children shrieked in delight when the matter streams engulfed it, leaving only an imprint of the box in the dirt when they disappeared.

"You guys get it?" enquired Jim.

"Received, Captain," responded Spock. "Please convey our appreciation to Miss Miram and the other children."

"Sure thing, Spock," said Jim with a small smile. "I'm hoping this development means I can start signing off with 'see you soon'?"

"Undoubtedly, Captain." The low determination in Spock's voice sent a shiver down Jim's spine.

"Yeah yeah, less talk more science. Spock, step away from the com. Jim, stop being late for your check-ins. McCoy, over and out."

Jim snorted as the communicator silenced with a chirp. With the fondness he felt for his two friends came a wave of longing.

 _Jesus, I miss them._

The next hour was spent helping the kids finish up their packing, and unloading upon them all the advice he thought they might need over the next few days. He eventually palmed the still-sleeping Elben off onto A'am so that he could assist Miram and Ro in filling bottles at the pool.

Miram cornered him before they returned to the other children.

"I'm still a kid, you know," she told him, without preamble. Her voice was part curious, part confrontational.

"I know that," replied Jim easily, unsure of where this was going.

"Then why do you talk to me like that?" she demanded.

"Like what, Miram?"

"Like…like I'm not. Like I'm an adult."

 _Ah,_ thought Jim. He took a moment before answering, tying the bottles together with a length of twine and tapping the side of one thoughtfully. "How do adults normally talk to you?" he asked finally.

Miram dithered. "I don't know. Like…like they're telling, not asking. Like they know better than us."

"And do they?"

Miram made a face at his words, and Jim laughed softly.

"I'm not saying adults are never right, Miram, and sometimes they do need to make choices for you. But that doesn't mean you don't have your own mind, and that you can't be right as well. You've certainly showed yourself to be more than capable of looking after yourself and your kids. So while I might try to convince you otherwise if I think your choice is a poor one, I'm not going to ignore it outright. I think you've earned better than that, Miram, don't you?"

Miram was quiet for a long time, just looking at the ground beneath her feet. Jim simply waited, still tapping out a gentle rhythm on the bottles between them.

When she looked up at last, her smile was tentative and grateful, and quite beautiful. Jim could see the shadows of the striking woman she would no-doubt become in the soft lines of her face.

"Call me Mimi."

XXX

Long after the children had left, Jim sat unmoving by the edge of the pool. The clearing, without the bustle and chatter of young voices, seemed too large and overwhelmingly quiet.

He ran a small turquoise stone over his knuckles repeatedly, admiring the way it caught the light. Ro had pressed it into his hand just before they all left, insisting that it was for luck. Though she had been a little teary, her smile had been bright as she insisted that they would see him again soon.

Jim preferred to think of that, rather than the solemn resignation in Miram's eyes as she had said goodbye.

When he shook himself from his state of apathy, the second sun was touching the mountain tops on the other side of the valley. He watched it for a moment, gauging the time left before nightfall, before pulling the communicator from his pocket. Within a moment, Scotty's rough brogue was filtering down the line.

"Aye, Cap'n?"

"Are Spock and Bones anywhere near you, Scotty?"

"Uh…no, Cap'n. I'm alone."

"Good," responded Jim.

He had arrangements to make.


End file.
